KATRINA 


KATRINA'S  DIARY 


KATRINA 


A  STORY 

By 
ROY  ROLFE  GILSON 

Author  of 

"In  the  Morning  Glow,"  "Miss  Primrose, 
"The  Flower  of  Youth,"  Etc. 


lileto 

THE   BAKER  &  TAYLOR   COMPANY 

33-37  EAST  I?TH  STREET,  UNION  SQUARE  (NORTH) 


Copyright,  1906,  by  THE  BAKER  &  TAYLOR  Co. 


Published,  October,  1906 


The  Plimpton  Press  Norwood  Mass.  U.S.A. 


M.  M.  F.  AND  E.  K  F. 


2135880 


CONTENTS 
PART  I 

PAGE 

I.    A  NEWSPAPER  MAN 13 

II.    LITTLE  RED  RIDING  HOOD      ....  25 

III.  THE  CUB-REPORTER'S  TALE        ...  36 

IV.  A  GENTLE  ART 48 

V.     UNDER  THE  ROSE 71 

VI.    PARTICEPS  CRIMINIS 87 

VII.     A  MODERN  DULCIMER 104 

VIII.    THE  OPTIMIST         121 

IX.    PATERNAL  PROBLEMS 133 

X.    KATRINA'S  DIARY 149 

XI.     QUESTIONS 164 

XII.    AN  EPILOGUE     ........  181 

PART   TWO 

I.    AGAINST  THE  MORROW 197 

II.     BILLY  WHITE     ........  217 

III.  ALADDIN 225 

IV.  HIGHER  THINGS 237 

V.     A  WRITING  MAN 246 

VI.     ARCADIAN  VISTAS 260 

VII.     THE  RENAISSANCE 270 

VIII.     SUNDAY         .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .  283 

IX.    THE  ONE  DREAM  LEFT 293 

vii 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


KATBINA'S  DIARY Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 
BOTH,  AT  FIRST,  WERE  A  TRIFLE  SHY        ...       28 

"  IT  WAS  MOST  AWKWARD  " 150 

SHE  CAME  DOWN  SOFTLY 230 

YOUNG  GIRLS  LIKING  TO  SIT  WITH  HER     .     .     .  284 

"HAPPY  DEARS"          .     .  312 


PART  I 


Katrina 


A   NEWSPAPER-MAN 

AT  ten  o'clock,  six  mornings  out  of  every 
seven,  Larry  McRae  appeared  in  the 
managing-editor's  doorway  with  six  jokes, 
typewritten,  in  his  hand.  If  his  chief  was  in 
consultation  with  a  political  friend,  he  waited 
in  the  adjoining  news-room,  lounging  cheer- 
fully on  the  corner  of  a  reporter's  table,  smok- 
ing cigarettes  and  exchanging  those  bantering 
observations  with  which  most  newspaper-men 
conceal  what  earnestness  may  dwell  within 
them.  Barely  forty,  his  straight,  dark  hair 
was  streaked  with  gray,  hanging  in  unkempt 
locks  about  a  shaven  face,  homely  of  feature, 
homelier  still  in  its  contending  elements  of 
expression  —  in  its  four  winds,  Larry  doubt- 
less would  have  said,  could  he  have  known 
those  paradoxes  which  made  his  countenance 
curious  and  even  fascinating  to  behold  and 
impossible  to  forget.  When  he  laughed, 

[13] 


KA TRINA 


boisterously,  his  gray  eyes  twinkling  through 
his  glasses,  his  mouth  wide  open,  his  long, 
lean,  coatless  figure  swaying  with  delight,  he 
was  like  a  schoolboy  overgrown,  while  the 
next  instant  his  sallow  face  might  settle 
visibly  into  such  melancholy  lines  of  preoccu- 
pation and  seeming  care  as  would  add  years 
to  him,  or  its  early  wrinkles  might  be  gathered 
up  into  knots  of  keen  sophistication,  half- 
mocking  smiles  playing  the  while  about  his 
thin,  set  lips,  and  making  him  a  little  terrible 
to  men  with  lies  to  tell,  and  even  perilous  to 
those  younger  members  of  the  staff,  fresh  from 
college  or  the  country  printing-shop,  trying 
their  'prentice  hands  at  certain  oft-told  tales 
in  quest  of  which  all  wise  city-editors  send  the 
callowest  youths  at  their  command.  Sweetly 
sentimental  stories  the  youngsters  make  them, 
and  sometimes  true  enough,  however  mawk- 
ishly they  may  be  told,  with  their  lorn  hero- 
ines, young  always  and  always  pretty,  easing 
their  lives  and  loves  away  in  garret  chambers, 
ashes  of  roses  mingled  romantically  with 
ashes  of  cigarettes.  Larry  himself  has  "done 
suicides"  in  his  time,  but  has  come  up  long 
ago  into  that  higher  journalism  which  deals 
[14] 


A    NEWSPAPER-MAN 


with  politics  —  which,  tapping,  tapping  upon 
its  typewriters  in  a  smoky  little  dingy  room, 
there  sits  in  judgment  on  an  erring  world. 
He  calls  grave  statesmen  by  their  Christian 
names,  describes  with  gusto  the  strategy  by 
which  they  rose  or  the  waves  of  circumstance 
which  swept  them  on ;  he  knows  who  the  kings 
are,  those  petty  sovereigns,  in  state  and  county, 
ward  and  town;  knows  how  old  feuds  were 
fought,  what  issues  stirred  them,  which  colors 
won.  What  Larry  remembers,  the  Herald 
recalls;  what  Larry  discovers,  the  Herald 
points  out ;  is  the  Herald  prophetic  ?  —  be- 
hold our  Larry!  The  future  also  is  in  his 
palm. 

In  Larry  McRae  the  sense  of  humor, — 
without  which  no  one  may  ever  be  a  news- 
paper-man —  was  evident  to  every  ear  that 
caught  his  drolleries,  and  could  be  seen  as  well, 
lurking  even  in  the  pathos  of  that  wilted  face. 
His  very  gait  —  that  long,  low,  sagging  stride 
as  he  approached  —  would  bring  your  smile ; 
the  words  he  drawled,  those  low,  mysterious 
confidences  which  he  had  crossed  the  room  to 
solemnly  entrust  you  with,  as  if  you,  you  out 
of  all  the  world,  would  have  the  wit  to  com- 

[15] 


KA TRIN  A 


prehend  —  those  suave  comments  upon  Life, 
or  Destiny,  or  the  city-editor's  new  cravat,  or 
the  growing  baldness  of  the  religious-man, 
ending  suddenly  in  a  very  asthma  of  delight 
ere  he  lurched  away  again  on  those  limber 
springs  of  his,  were  irresistible,  not  always  of 
themselves  so  much  as  of  himself,  though  his 
printed  jests  in  his  little  corner  of  the  Herald 
called  "Cap  and  Bells,'*  quite  unassisted  by 
his  presence,  would  stand  the  test  of  their 
little  day. 

Of  the  McRaes  nothing  was  ever  known  at 
the  Herald  office  save  that  they  had  been 
farming  folk  and  that  Lawrence,  one  of  seven 
sons,  had  come  to  the  city  to  make  his  way. 
From  his  own  account,  a  vague  and  jocular 
Odyssey  of  his  early  wanderings,  he  had 
peddled  books,  he  had  plated  silver  by  a 
patent  process,  he  had  been  a  street-car  con- 
ductor, an  insurance  agent,  a  grocer's  sales- 
man, and  had  "taken  tickets  at  the  door." 
What  door  it  was  he  did  not  say,  but  there 
one  night,  according  to  his  story,  he  saw  a 
vision:  the  sky  grew  black,  lightning  flashed 
and  thunder  rumbled,  and  suddenly  he  said, 
he  saw  himself  in  the  midst  of  the  tempest  — 
[16] 


A    NEWSPAPER-MAN 


which  on  closer  inspection  appeared  to  be  only 
tobacco  smoke  after  all,  with  men  at  type- 
writers growling  and  striking  matches  and 
grinding  out  copy,  so  that  he  knew  himself 
called  of  Heaven  to  be  a  newspaper-man. 

His  way,  apparently,  had  been  easier  after 
that,  save  only  once,  perhaps,  in  the  very 
midst  of  his  promise  when  a  strange  moodiness 
fell  upon  him,  when  without  resigning,  with- 
out a  parting  word  to  a  living  soul,  chief  or 
comrade,  he  disappeared,  no  one  knew  whither. 
Six  months  had  passed  when  he  returned  as 
suddenly  as  he  had  gone.  The  staff  assem- 
bling one  autumn  morning  discovered  Larry 
tapping  six  jokes  on  his  old  typewriter  at  his 
accustomed  desk.  He  was  tanned  by  the  sun 
and  wind,  but  otherwise  seemed  quite  the  same. 
He  returned  all  salutations  of  surprise  and 
pleasure  with  his  old  good-humor,  as  if  but 
the  night  had  intervened,  and  without  a  word 
as  to  his  absence,  and  never  save  once  did  he 
acknowledge  it  in  any  way.  He  had  not  even 
asked  to  have  his  old  place  back,  but  had  re- 
taken it,  calmly,  at  the  usual  hour,  so  calmly 
indeed,  so  casually,  with  an  air  above  com- 
mon things,  that  for  a  full  minute  his  chief 


KA TRIN  A 


was  speechless  when  he  laid  his  jokes  upon 
the  desk. 

"You  back!"  Bates  managed,  finally,  to 
exlaim,  and  Larry  nodded. 

"  Came  in  this  morning  —  five  o'clock  — 
b-by  freight." 

They  let  him  stay.  It  was  remarked  that 
his  face  drooped  more,  that  he  laughed  more 
seldom,  that  a  certain  buoyancy  was  gone, 
but  his  great  good-nature  remained  the  same, 
and  even  grew  in  a  kind  of  grace.  There 
was  a  mellower  flavor  in  his  "Cap  and 
Bells,"  not  that  his  jests  ever  lost  that  keen- 
ness which  proved  his  knowledge  of  his  fellow- 
men,  but  they  gained  a  ripeness  which  made 
them  pleasant  to  recall,  so  that  now  and  then 
one  nobler  or  shrewder  than  the  rest  outlived 
the  little  bustling  day  for  which  he  wrote  it, 
and  became  tradition  at  the  Herald. 

After  the  Herald  was  out,  in  its  last  edition 
for  the  day,  it  was  ancient  custom  for  the 
youngsters  to  gather  cheerfully  where  the 
cheese  was  free,  and  where,  over  pipes  and 
beer,  they  were  wont  to  prove  (the  more  con- 
clusively, the  more  they  sipped)  that  Litera- 
ture was  not  yet  dead,  or  even  sleeping,  how- 

[18] 


A    NEWSPAPER-MAN 


ever  paltry  all  modern  books  might  be,  but 
had  her  abiding  place  safely  and  happily 
enough  in  the  humbler  lodgings  of  the  daily 
press.  What,  for  example,  could  be  better 
jesting  than  "Cap  and  Bells?"  It  was  Elia 
himself  come  back  to  life  again.  Larry 
McRae  was  a  better  writer  (cheese  here)  than 
any  one-hundred-thousand-volume  duffer  of 
the  past  decade! — (here  beer).  What  a 
novelist!  —  that  is,  if  he  only  would  —  this 
lean  Charles  Lamb,  this  very  Dickens  of  a 
fellow,  with  his  knowledge  of  the  street,  the 
court-room,  the  council-chamber,  the  prison- 
cell,  might  be ! 

That  he  made  no  effort  to  vindicate  these 
literary  claims  was  explained  variously:  he 
was  too  busy,  too  indolent,  too  careless,  too 
fond  of  his  day's  work,  even  too  wise,  it  was 
declared,  to  play  at  such  a  bubble-blowing 
pastime  as  writing  books,  though  a  certain 
pale,  dark-haired  person  with  soap-suds  in  his 
own  young  dreams  was  heard  to  say,  in  a 
spirit  denounced  as  arrant  jealousy,  that 
Lawrence  McRae  knew  far  too  well  how 
fragile  a  reputation  never  earned  might  be,  to 
risk  its  brittleness  in  any  test.  Suppose,  for 

[19] 


KA TRIN  A 


example,  he  should  write  a  novel  that  was  not 
so  Dickensy  as  his  friends ? 

Larry  meanwhile,  still  at  his  desk,  uncon- 
scious of  all  this  junior  chirping,  is  lost  in  the 
composition  of  those  pithy  paragraphs  with 
which  all  self-respecting  editorial  columns 
dwindle  away  and  lose  themselves  among  the 
news  and  jests.  They  are  akin  in  spirit  to  his 
"Cap  and  Bells"  which  he  writes  mornings, 
leaving  his  longer  articles  for  the  midst  and 
turmoil  of  the  day  when  all  at  once  the  news 
pours  in  from  the  globe's  four  quarters,  crying 
for  comment  from  the  Herald's  most  trenchant 
pens.  At  five,  however,  he  rises  slowly  into 
the  tobacco  laden  air,  slips  on  his  coat,  stuffing 
its  pockets  with  all  the  journals  he  can  lay  his 
hands  on,  puts  on  his  slouched  hat,  takes  up 
his  stick,  and  bowing  suavely  then  to  his  col- 
leagues in  the  little  paper-littered  room,  he 
sometimes  says  in  a  voice  that  struggles  be- 
yond its  depths: 

;' Young  gentlemen,  I  bid  you,  one  and  all, 
a  kind  good  evening." 

The  smiles  that  follow  him  as  he  stalks 
down-stairs  are  due  in  part  to  a  boyish  twinkle 
out  of  all  proportion  to  the  majesty  of  his 

[20] 


A    NEWSPAPER-MAN 


words  and  bearing,  partly  to  the  respectful 
attention  he  has  won  by  years  of  such  saga- 
cious fooling,  but  more  especially  to  the  fact 
that  three  at  least  of  the  gentlemen  he  has  just 
addressed  are  scarcely  in  that  callowness  which 
his  words  imply,  one  being  bald,  another  gray, 
while  to  quote  himself  a  third  is  moulting. 
The  others  indeed  are  beardless  youths,  but 
the  inclination  of  Larry's  head  as  he  says  fare- 
well is  rather  to  the  older  desk-men,  his  glance 
resting  always  with  final  and  fondest  emphasis 
on  that  shining  pate,  the  tender  possession  of 
the  Herald's  dramatic-man,  and  as  Larry  said 
at  the  Press  Club  banquet :  "  Gentlemen,  that 
outward  and  visible  sign  of  his  inward  grace." 
Where  Larry  pauses  in  his  homeward 
journey  is  a  matter  compounded  of  politics 
and  rye,  but  at  dusk  he  is  usually  to  be  seen 
lounging  alone  up  the  gas-lit  street,  absorbed 
in  thought,  scarcely  aware  of  the  Heralds  which 
the  newsboys  thrust  upon  him,  all  uncon- 
scious that  they  cry  his  wares.  Sometimes 
he  stops  before  shop-windows,  preferably  those 
where  children  linger,  pressing  their  noses 
against  the  panes  and  gazing  at  the  rainbow's 
farther  end  —  no  pot  of  gold,  indeed,  but  pans 

[21] 


KATRIN A 


of  doughnuts  dusted  white,  pies  crackling  at 
the  edges  if  you  but  look  at  them,  plum  cakes 
and  gingerbread,  rows  upon  rows  of  those 
jellied  and  custarded  inexplicables  of  every 
form  and  size,  whose  names  doubtless  are 
known  to  angels,  but  here  on  earth  are  the 
secret  and  savory  knowledge  of  baker's  men 

—  favored  and  floury  mortals  of  a  wisdom  so 
infinitely  sweet  it  can  be  measured  only  by  a 
child's  young  dream.     Larry  himself  enters 
these  palaces  of  delight  to  buy  of  doughnuts, 
one  for  himself  and  one  for  each  nose  whitened 
against  the  pane,  and  he  may  be  seen  then, 
mannerless,  munching  in  the  public  ways.     So 
discovered  he  retorts  in  answer  to  a  cynic's 
smile  —  sings,  with  his  mouth  full  — 

"Dough,  what  a  foretaste  of  glory  divine!" 

—  and  strolls  on  shamelessly,  wiping  the  sugar 
from  his  lips. 

Other  persons  buy  and  hurry  homeward, 
jostling  his  elbows  as  they  pass,  frowning  at 
his  tardy  pace.  He  has  no  need  for  such  press- 
ing ardor.  No  one  waits  or  listens  for  his 
footsteps.  Without  anxiety,  without  eagerness, 
without  emotion  of  any  kind  he  may  turn  his 
corner  in  his  own  good  time  and  so  walk  on 

[22] 


A    NEWSPAPER-MAN 


calmly  to  Mrs.  Withers's  door,  behind  which 
no  one  lurks,  child  or  Indian,  to  clog  his 
progress  up  the  dingy  and  silent  stair.  He 
may  find  his  laundry  on  the  newel-post,  but 
nothing  more  curious  will  intervene.  He 
mounts  slowly  to  his  room,  an  alcoved  chamber 
on  an  upper  floor,  meager  enough  in  its  board- 
ing-house furnishings:  bed  and  bureau  and 
small  wash-stand,  an  old  stuffed  chair  in  which 
he  reads  sometimes  close  to  a  window  looking 
streetward,  and  a  cluttered  table  by  the  register 
at  which  he  writes,  evenings  or  Sundays,  on 
those  rare  occasions  when  his  ingenuity  can 
devise  no  better  pastime  than  to  stay  at  home. 
A  few  books  are  on  his  shelves,  gifts  or  those 
stray  novels  and  works  on  politics  which  he 
has  chanced  to  review  for  the  Evening  Herald. 
A  gaudy  calendar,  compliments  of  the  Breit- 
stein  Brewery,  hangs  on  his  wall,  and  fading 
photographs  adorn  his  bureau,  arranged  in  a, 
row  along  its  top  and  tucked  into  corners  of 
its  glass.  From  the  arm  of  the  gas-jet  dangle 
cravats  of  a  dozen  seasons,  while  the  bureau 
drawers  and  a  corner  closet  are  more  than 
ample,  his  best  suit  hanging  upon  his  back. 
"Sir,"  said  the  Distinguished  Guest  at  the 
[23] 


KATRINA 


Press  Club  banquet,  bowing  to  Larry  as  he 
presided  in  a  dress-suit  borrowed  for  the  night 
—  "Sir,  a  newspaper-man  is  the  knight- 
errant  of  these  modern  times  of  ours.  His 
Lady  is  both  young  and  fair,  though  her  eyes 
are  bandaged  from  the  gay,  false  light  of  day. 
Like  her  ancient  champions  he  may  ride  dis- 
guised (oh,  Larry's  face!)  He  may  ride  clad 
rustily  with  device  concealed,  but  he  wears  her 
favor  on  his  stalwart  arm,  sir.  He  seeks  high 
places  —  yea,  enters  the  temples  of  the  Lord's 
anointed,  sans  peur  et  sans  reproche,  to 
thrust  keen,  lance-like  questions  there  —  and 
he  rides  back  homeward  from  his  quest  to 
tell  strange  tales,  evenings,  before  our  fires." 


[24] 


II 


LITTLE    RED    RIDING    HOOD 

OWING  to  the  insatiable  curiosity  of  the 
Herald  one  April  afternoon,  Larry  McRae, 
descending  the  stairs  in  a  public  school  house, 
found  himself  going  down  step  by  step  in  the 
company  of  a  little  girl.  The  child,  soon  con- 
scious of  the  perfect  time  they  kept,  for  they 
were  alone  together  and  the  hallway  echoed 
with  their  chiming  footsteps,  tried  to  break 
them,  but  in  vain,  for  when  she  lingered,  he 
checked  his  pace,  and  when  she  hastened, 
he  hastened  too,  till  she  reached  the  foot  quite 
red  and  breathless  —  to  find  it  raining. 

The  solemn  stranger  at  her  side,  taking  no 
seeming  notice  of  her  troubled  face,  gazed  at 
the  leaden  sky  and  the  pattering  drops,  and 
sighed  impatiently. 

"Oh,  sugar!"  he  said,  in  a  voice  so  mincing 
that  the  little  girl  tittered. 

"What  did  you  say?"  he  inquired. 

"  I  didn't  say  anything,"  she  replied  faintly. 

"Oh,  I  thought  you  spoke  to  me.  Quite 
a  rain  we're  having." 

[25] 


KA TRINA 


"  Yes,"  said  the  little  girl. 

"You  have  no  umbrella,  my  child.  Which 
way  do  you  go?  You  shall  walk  under 
mine." 

"Oh,  no  —  no  thank  you,  sir,"  she  said. 
"I  can  wait  till  it  stops." 

"Ah,  then  it  will  never  stop,"  he  warned 
her.  "  Don't  you  know,  little  girl,  that  if  you 
wait  for  anything  to  begin  or  stop,  it  never 
does?" 

"I  wouldn't  say  *  never',"  was  her  reply. 
"There  are  always  exceptions."  • 

"Are  there?"  he  asked.  She  was  an  odd, 
demure  little  thing,  with  calm  gray  eyes,  and 
of  a  speech  precise  and  lady-like;  she  was 
small  for  her  words,  he  thought.  "  Now  what, 
for  instance?"  he  inquired. 

"Well,"  she  began,  "if  one  has  patience,  all 
things  will  come  to  one." 

McRae  looked  twice  before  he  spoke. 

"  What  makes  you  think  so,  little  girl  ?" 

She  hesitated.  It  took  some  courage,  but 
she  said  it  bravely  —  "The  Bible  tells  us," 
and  cast  down  her  eyes. 

McRae  was  silent.  The  rain  poured  harder 
and  there  was  no  sign  of  promise  in  the  sky. 

[26] 


LITTLE    RED     RIDING    HOOD 
"It   is   kind   o'    slackening,"   he   observed 

slyly. 

"I  didn't  say  it  would  stop  all  at  once," 
said  the  little  girl.  "Patience  is  more  than 
just  a  minute." 

"How  long  is  patience?"  he  inquired. 
'Years  sometimes,"  was  her  reply. 

"Dear,  dear,"  said  the  newspaper-man, 
raising  his  umbrella  by  way  of  astonishment. 
"  I  can't  wait  that  long.  Will  you  come  now, 
or  shall  I  return  for  you  —  say,  next  spring?" 

The  little  girl  laughed. 

"Oh,  please  don't  trouble,"  she  began  - 

"I  am  at  your  service,"  he  interposed  gal- 
lantly "  —  any  April.  But  you'd  better  come 
now." 

She  looked  at  the  rain  which  was  falling 
dismally,  and  the  more  forlornly  by  contrast 
with  his  cheerful  face. 

"  Which  way,  my  dear  ?  " 

"It  is'nt  far,"  she  said,  surrendering — and 
he  tucked  her,  school-books  and  all,  beneath 
his  arm. 

Both,  at  first,  were  a  trifle  shy,  and  they 
walked  on  silently,  soberly,  keeping  step  —  till 
she  burst  out  laughing. 

[27] 


KA TRIN  A 


"It's  like  on  the  stairs,  isn't  it  ?"  she  said. 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  smiling  at  the  remem- 
brance. ''You  would  keep  step  with  me.  It 
was  most  embarrassing." 

"7/"  cried  the  little  girl,  aghast."  Why  it 
was  you!" 

"//"said  Larry. 

"Why,  yes,"  she  protested.  "I  tried  to 
break  step,  but  you  kept  just  even." 

"My  child,"  he  replied,  "you  must  be  mis- 
taken. I  wanted  you  to  go  ahead,  so  I  lagged 
behind." 

"Why,  that  was  what  7  was  doing,"  said  the 
little  girl.  "  I  lagged  on  purpose  to  let  you  - 

"And,  don't  you  see,"  Larry  interposed, 
"both  of  us  lagging,  we  kept  just  even,  as  you 
say.  So  7  hurried  on  to  get  ahead  of  you." 

"  Why,  that  was  what  7  did,"  said  the  child. 

"Oh,  you  shouldn't  have  done  it,"  he 
pointed  out,  "for  don't  you  see,  just  then  I  was 
hurrying  on  myself  —  so  you  kept  us  even." 

"It's  awfully  queer,"  the  little  girl  said. 
"I  had  it  right  once,  but  now — " 

She  paused  perplexed. 

—  I   can't   make  it   out   at   all.     You've 
mixed  me  all  up." 

[28] 


BOTH,  AT  FIRST,  WERE  A  TRIFLE  SHY 


LITTLE    RED    RIDING    HOOD 

"Why,"  he  replied,  "it's  quite  simple;  when 
I  lagged,  you  lagged." 

"I  know,"  she  answered,  "but  it  doesn't 
sound  right  someway." 

"Well,  it  doesn't  matter,"  he  assured  her 
kindly.  "It  was  quite  unintentional,  I  am 
sure,  and  besides,  to  be  quite  frank  with  you, 
I  am  not  at  all  sorry  it  occurred.  A  newspaper- 
man has  very  few  chances  to  — " 

He  paused,  astonished,  for  the  little  girl  had 
withdrawn  her  arm. 

"Are  you  a  newspaper-man /"  she  cried, 
shrinking  back  into  the  rain. 

"  Why,  yes,"  he  answered. 

"Oh!"  she  replied.  "I  never  would  have 
come  if  I  had  known  that" 

"Never  would  have  come?"  he  repeated. 

"But  you  looked  so  honest,"  the  little  girl 
said.  "  I  never  dreamed  you  could  be  a  news- 
paper-man." 

"A  newspaper-man?"  Larry  inquired  — 
they  were  stock-still  in  the  middle  of  a  cross- 
walk, in  the  rain  -  "  why,  what's  your  objec- 
tion to  newspaper-men,  my  dear?" 

"Oh,  oh!"  she  replied,  still  gazing  at  him 
with  fascinated,  horror-stricken  eyes  —  Red 
[29] 


KA TRINA 


Riding   Hood  knowing   the   Wolf   at   last  - 
"Oh,  I  never  should   have  thought  it,  you 
seemed  such  a  gentleman." 

Larry  smiled.  He  had  been  too  astonished 
to  do  so  before,  and  even  now  he  quickly 
checked  himself  before  that  earnestness. 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  "it  is  evident  that  you 
have  never  known  many  newspaper-men." 

"Oh,  but  I  know  all  about  them,"  she  re- 
plied, "and  I  think  it's  dreadful  to  be  one. 
Why  don't  you  stop  ?" 

"  Stop  ?"  said  Larry. 

:'Yes,"  she  went  on.     "/  would  if  I  were 
you.     Why,  I'd  be  a  policeman  —  I'd  be  a  - 
oh,  I'd  be  anything  before  I'd  be  one." 

"Dear  me,"  replied  the  Wolf,  gazing  at  the 
puddle  he  was  standing  in.  "I  had  never 
thought  of  it  quite  that  way  before." 

"They  lie  so!"  said  the  little  girl. 

"Lie  so?" 

"Why,  yes,"  she  replied,  "You  can  never 
believe  a  thing  they  say.  And  they  drink 
so!" 

"They  do  ?"  he  inquired. 

"And  they  swear  and  gamble,"  the  little 
girl  said. 

[30] 


LITTLE    RED    RIDING    HOOD 

"  My,  my ! "  he  replied.  "  But  you're  getting 
all  wet.  Let's  talk  it  over  as  we  go." 

But  the  child  drew  back. 

"Come,"  the  Wolf  pleaded.  "You  might 
reform  me." 

She  joined  him  then,  but  gingerly,  no  longer 
walking  with  her  hand  upon  his  arm. 

:<  You  don't  look  like  them,"  she  conceded. 

"  How  do  they  look  ?  —  that  is,  usually  ?  "  he 
inquired. 

"  Well,  I'm  not  quite  sure,"  she  replied,  but 
I  know  they're  yellow  kind  of  men.  At  least 
I've  heard  so." 

"But  are  all  of  them  yellow,  and  so  very 
dreadful?"  he  inquired. 

"There  may  be  nice  ones,  I  suppose,"  she 
replied  doubtfully;  "that  is,  young  ones  who 
have  not  been  in  it  so  very  long.  But  the 
majority  are  just  like  Pullen." 

"Pullen?" 

"  Yes.  He  lived  next  door  to  us  —  used  to, 
I  mean  —  and  he  drank,  oh  awfully!  And  he 
beat  his  wife!" 

"The  wretch!"  cried  Larry.  "And  was 
this  fellow  Pullen  a  newspaper-man  ?  I  can't 
believe  it." 

[31] 


KA TRIN  A 


"  He  was,"  said  the  little  girl,  "  and  Mrs. 
Gaylor  says  that  they're  all  alike.  She  knows 
too,  for  she's  woman's-rights,  Mrs.  Gaylor  is. 
Men  can't  fool  her,  I  guess." 

"  No,  indeed,"  said  Larry.  "  Isn't  it  terrible  ?  " 

The  little  girl  bridled. 

"I  don't  think  it's  so  very  terrible  to  be 
woman's-rights." 

"Oh,  no,  of  course  not,"  he  assured  her. 
"Quite  the  reverse  in  fact.  But  isn't  it 
terrible,  I  mean,  that  newspaper-men  should 
be  so  disliked  ?  Now  I  never  knew  one  like 
Mr.  Pullen  —  really." 

"Why  even  father,"  she  replied,  "says  that 
you  can  never  trust  them  to  get  things 
straight." 

"Um,"  said  Larry.  "There's  something 
in  that.  Still,  I've  known  some  very  respect- 
able newspaper-men.  You  may  not  believe 
me,  but  I  have." 

"Well,"  was  her  answer,  "I  wouldn't  be 
one.  And  if  I  were  one  — " 

She  set  her  lips. 

-Well,  I'd  go  and  shovel  coal;  I'd  do 
anything;  I  wouldn't  care  what  I  did  —  but 
I'd  earn  an  honest  living,  somehow." 

[32] 


LITTLE    RED    RIDING    HOOD 

The  Wolf  was  silent. 

"Have  you  no  mother?"  she  inquired  sud- 
denly. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Or  sister  either?" 

"No." 

"Or  wife?" 

"Not  even  a  wife,"  he  assured  her  solemnly. 

"Well,  that's  a  blessing,"  said  the  little 
girl.  "They'd  feel  so  sorry." 

And  the  Wolf  gasped.  The  rain  had 
stopped  as  they  paused  by  her  gate. 

"I'm  so  obliged  to  you,"  she  said,  "and  I 
wish  you'd  see  father.  He's  awfully  kind  to 
people  in  distress." 

Larry  cringed. 

"Thank  ye,  Miss,"  he  said  huskily.  "  You 
speak  to  the  guvner :  I  ain't  got  the  nerve.  Jest 
ask  him  if  he  'ears  o'  anything  a  honest  chap 
could  make  his  livin'  at,  to  let  me  know,  an' 
I'll  never  forget  it,  I  tell  yer  that.  I'm  on  the 
Herald,  I  am.  Jest  ask  fer  Larry  —  that's 
me,  Miss.  They  all  know  Larry,  you  bet. 
They  all  know  who  I  am.  Well  - 

He  paused  with  an  awkward  attempt  at  gal- 
lantry. 

[33] 


KA TRINA 


"I'll  bid  yer  good-day,  lady,  and  may 
Heaven  bless  yer.  I  ain't  so  low  I  don't  know 
me  manners  —  I  should  say  not.  Here's  luck 
to  yer." 

And  he  wiped  his  mouth  with  the  back  of 
his  hand. 

The  little  girl,  her  worst  fears  realized,  had 
shut  the  gate  in  some  trepidation  and  was 
preparing  for  a  further  flight. 

"  Good-by,"  said  Larry. 

Something  in  his  face  —  it  beamed  so 
humorously  upon  her  —  and  the  kindness  of 
his  altered  voice  now  checked  her  steps,  though 
she  stood  fearfully,  uncertain  whether  she 
should  laugh  or  cry. 

"Oh!"  she  gasped,  "You  were  only- 

"  Good-by,"  he  said  again,  more  gently 
even  than  before.  "But  you  haven't  told  me 
your  father's  name." 

"  J  -  -  June,"  she  replied,  still  a  little  doubt- 
ful of  all  this  courtesy. 

"Not  —  not  William  June?" 

"Oh!  then  you  know  my  father!"  she 
cried,  smiling  again. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"And  you?"  he  asked. 
[34] 


LITTLE    RED    RIDING    HOOD 

"I  am  Katrina." 

His  eyes  widened  as  he  gazed  at  her,  so 
earnestly  that  she  dropped  her  own. 

"Katrina,"  he  repeated,  and  added  slowly, 
"so  you're  Katrina?  It's  a  pretty  name." 

"I'm  glad  you  like  it,"  she  replied,  raising 
her  eyes  again.  His  own  were  upon  her  still, 
though  now  they  had  an  absent  look  in  them, 
and  he  spoke  vaguely. 

"  What's  that  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  say  I'm  glad  you  like  it  —  my  name,  you 
know/' 

"True,"  he  replied.  "Good-by,  Katrina." 
Taking  her  hand  across  the  gate,  he  raised  it 
gallantly  to  his  lips. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  —  Mr.  Larry!"  she  said,  blushing 
deeply.  "I  didn't  mean  —  I  never  said  — 
you  were  not  nice." 


[35] 


Ill 


THE   CUB -REPORTER  S  TALE 

WHEN  the  staff  of  the  Herald  assembled  at 
eight  o'clock,  the  reporters,  one  by  one,  con- 
sulted an  open  diary  lying  on  the  desk  of  the 
city-editor  and  containing  the  first  assign- 
ments for  the  day,  while  from  their  chief  him- 
self they  received  such  additional  directions, 
hints  and  warnings,  and  clippings  from  the 
morning  press,  as  might  be  necessary  for  the 
interpretation  of  the  tasks  allotted  them. 

Addison  Wrenn,  innocent  with  youth  and 
nervous  on  his  new-fledged  journalistic  wings, 
cleared  his  throat  and  swallowed  twice  at  least 
as  he  approached  the  Book  in  dread  uncer- 
tainty of  what  was  written  there  against  his 
name.  He  was  not  a  religious  youth  (he  was 
a  Unitarian  —  by  birth)  but  he  prayed,  always, 
before  he  looked.  Seemingly  it  was  a  harm- 
less volume,  a  mere  ledger-looking  thing  with 
its  ruled  pages  and  Harned's  neat  entries  in 
purple  ink,  but  Addison  knew  it  for  the  man- 
trap that  it  was;  a  veritable  cavern  of  a  book, 

[36] 


THE    CUB-REPORTER'S     TALE 

the  shadowy  entrance  to  a  maze  of  passages 
leading,  Heaven  knows  where,  into  the  world, 
and  every  one  of  them  the  abode  of  Scoops 
—  scaly  monsters  that  pounce  upon  rosy- 
cheeked  cub-reporters  as  they  pass,  groping 
their  way  into  light  of  fame,  or  outer  darkness. 
The  Scoops  are  subtle  demons  and  have  the 
power  of  rendering  themselves  invisible  to  the 
naked  eye  —  till  three  P.M.  At  three,  look  out! 
With  a  Perfecting  roar  they  spring  out  sud- 
denly from  their  basement  lairs.  They  are 
inky-black  and  clammy  to  the  touch.  Some 
have  five  heads!  —  and  you  are  lost  forever. 
(They  will  pay  you  off  next  Saturday  noon.) 
Even  the  little  single-noddled  ones  are  a  match 
for  a  man.  At  three,  then,  take  up  your  rival 
with  trembling  fingers.  Scan  it  with  a  fear- 
ful eye,  and  a  heart  thumping  against  your 
ribs.  A-ha!  Claws  at  your  throat,  eh? 
They've  got  you ;  your  scooped,  my  boy ! 

Addison's  journalism  was  but  four  weeks 
old.  He  had  yet  to  prove  to  his  city-editor 
what  he  and  his  parents  and  a  younger 
sister  were  certain  of  —  that  he  had  been 
ordained  of  Heaven  to  reveal  some  hitherto 
unsuspected  beauties  in  English  prose.  He, 

[37] 


KA TRIN  A 


it  was,  who  wrote  the  prize-essay  of  his  senior 
year,  "Shakespeare:  the  Man,"  and  he  had 
published,  in  the  High  School  Meteor,  verse 
that  was  still  remembered  in  those  classic 
halls.  Moreover,  he  had  shunned  and  de- 
spised mathematics  from  his  birth. 

It  was  therefore  with  mingled  hope  and 
fear  of  opportunity  that  his  eyes  swept  down 
the  column  of  the  day's  assignments  to  find 
his  name : 

S.  A.  R.  Annual  Conv.  Hotel  Amer.,  10  A.  M.  Poore 

Rep.  County  Committee,  1 1  o'clock    Fellows 

Liquor  Dealers'  Association,  Arbeiter  Hall  Poore 

Methodist  Ministers  (see  Dr.  Betts)    Poore 

Fletcher  Trial    Stevens 

City  Hall  and  Politics     Clarke 

Board  of  Supervisors Clarke 

Police,  Courts,  etc Merrivale 

Paynter  Murder Dunwoodie 

See  Senator  Bayne  —  and  watch  Fox    ....  Fellows 

Postmaster  Jones Fellows 

Federal  Bldg  and  Moseley  Hearing Schneider 

Halcomb  Funeral    Schneider 

John  L.  Sullivan  in  town     Potts 

W.  C.  T.  U.  nude  in  art Wrenn 

Hell  and  Damnation     Wrenn 

Old  Historian Wrenn 

[38] 


THE    CUB-REPORTER'S     TALE 

"Perfectly  clear,  I  suppose,  Mr.  Wrenn?" 
Harned  inquired,  without  a  smile,  fixing  his 
calm  eyes  upon  the  youth.  Addison  colored. 

"Not  exactly,  sir." 

"Why,  it's  plain  enough,"  Harned  re- 
marked. "I  understand  the  W.  C.  T.  U.  are 
getting  up  a  remonstrance  to  the  Park  Board 
against  the  statues  of  naughty  little  boys  with 
which  it  is  proposed  to  ornament  the  new 
fountain  in  Yerrington  Square.  See  that  ex- 
cellent lady,  Mrs.  Pope  of  Varney  Street,  and 
find  out  about  it,  and  incidentally  draw  her 
out  on  the  reform  of  art,  and  what  its  future 
is  likely  to  become  under  the  auspices  of  the 
Woman's  Christian  Temperance  Union  and 
the  Independent  Women  Voters'  Association, 
in  both  of  which  she  is  a  leading  light.  If  she 
won't  talk,  try  Mrs.  Coy  —  Mrs.  C.  R.  Coy, 
I  think.  You'll  find  her  in  the  directory. 
Then  take  a  run  up  to  Dr.  Weaver's  — 
Weaver  of  the  Pine  Street  Presbyterian  — 
and  ask  him  what  he  thinks  of  the  action 
of  this  Oregon  presbytery  with  reference 
to  the  Westminster  Confession  of  Faith. 
Here's  the  clipping.  You  might  go  and 
see  Dr.  Bryce  of  the  Universalist  Church 

[39] 


KA TRINA 


and  get  his  views  also.  And  here's  another 
clipping." 

Wrenn  took  it  from  Harned's  hand  and 
read: 

"The  committee  reported  unfavorably  on 
a  proposition  to  introduce  a  local  history  into 
the  schools." 

"This,"  he  said  inquiringly,  "is  from  the 

» 

The  city-editor  turned  from  his  work  again. 

"  Board  of  Education  —  last  night,"  he 
murmured,  and  resumed  blue-penciling. 
"But  I  don't  want  that,  you  know,"  he  called 
out  sharply  as  Wrenn  retreated  to  his  desk. 
"  Who's  written  a  history,  and  what  did  he  do 
it  for?" 

Addison  nodded,  and  stuffing  his  pocket 
with  a  handful  of  copy-paper,  hurried  away. 

Three  hours  later  he  returned.  Breathless 
from  running  up-stairs  he  appeared  suddenly 
at  Harned's  elbow,  and  after  waiting  vainly  for 
his  chief  to  notice  him,  made  his  report  into 
that  busy  editor's  apparently  heedless  ear. 
It  began  with  excuses. 

"But  I've  got  a  corking  story  on  the  his- 
torian," he  said. 

[40] 


THE    CUB-REPORTER'S     TALE 

Harned  raised  his  eyes,  and  gazed  absently 
at  the  eager  and  perspiring  face  above  him. 

"Then  why  not  write  it?"  he  suggested 
mildly,  and  turned  away  again. 

Addison  Wrenn,  journalist,  began  profes- 
sionally :  he  lighted  his  pipe  —  with  grave 
deliberation  —  and  arranged  his  notes  upon 
the  desk.  But  the  opening  paragraph  sorely 
afflicted  him;  the  floor  at  his  feet  was  quickly 
littered  with  discarded  lines;  he  wrote  with  his 
pen  gripped  tightly  in  his  hand,  his  face,  in 
sympathy  with  every  stroke,  working  with  an 
expression  of  internal  agony,  dreadful  to  be- 
hold, and  increasing  visibly  when  his  eyes, 
raised  for  a  moment's  inspiration,  were  panic- 
stricken  by  the  office  clock.  It  was  half  past 
twelve  when  he  laid  the  formidable  bundle 
upon  Harned's  desk  and  retreated  to  the 
farthest  corner  of  the  room.  That  he  was  a 
cub-reporter  his  furtive  glances  at  the  city- 
editor  were  enough  to  prove,  and  presently 
his  face  grew  red.  The  corking  story  was  in 
hand! 

In  an  humble  cottage  with  green  blinds,  on 
the  outskirts  of  the  town,  dwells  William  June, 

[41] 


KATRINA 

with  his  only  child,  a  sweet-faced,  grave-eyed 
little  girl  who  opens  the  door  to  you  and  bids 
you  welcome  with  maiden  modesty  and  dainty 
grace.  One  passing  in  the  quiet  thorough- 
fare would  see  but  the  plain  board  sign  upon 
the  house  — 

Private  Tutor  —  Preparation  for  College 
Courses. 


He  would  never  guess  what  lies  concealed 
behind  those  modest  walls  where  the  last 
morning-glories  cling,  laughing  in  the  fall 
sunshine  as  if  no  chilling  blasts  were  soon  to 
nip  their  happy  faces.  He  would  never  know 
the  life-long  dream  of  the  student  closeted  in 
the  little  study  there  —  a  dream,  alas !  which 
like  the  blossoms  without,  trembling  in  each 
autumnal  gust,  is  slowly  withering  with  the 
dying  year.  William  June  —  tutor,  as  the 
sign-board  calls  him  —  historian,  as  he  is  far 
too  modest  to  call  himself  -  -  has  had  a  blow. 
The  Board  of  Education  has  rejected  the 
fondest  project  of  his  youth,  the  loving  labor, 
at  odd  moments,  of  fifteen  long  and  tedious 
years  —  a  history  of  our  thriving  city. 

The  city-editor  raised  his  eyes,  permitting 
them  to  wander  cautiously  in  the  direction 

[42] 


THE    CUB-REPORTER'S     TALE 

from  which  this  tale  had  come  —  but  the  cub- 
reporter  had  withdrawn,  noiselessly. 

Professor  June  was  seen  this  morning  by  a 
reporter  for  the  Herald. 

"Gome  in,"  he  said,  smiling  cordially. 
"This,"  he  added,  an  expression  of  indulgent 
fondness  lighting  up  his  kind  brown  eyes,  "is 
my  daughter,  Katrina." 

The  little  miss  held  out  a  slender  blue- 
veined  hand. 

"I  used  to  be  afraid  of  newspaper-men," 
she  lisped  archly,  "but  I'm  not  any  more;" 
and  gravely  excusing  herself,  she  passed  like 
a  ray  of  sunshine  from  the  room.  Need  it  be 
added  that  the  father's  eyes  followed  her  in 
fond  paternal  fancy  beyond  the  door? 

The  professor  turned  then  to  his  guest 
whom  he  seated  in  the  easiest  chair  the  room 
afforded.  It  was  a  student's  paradise,  the 
den  of  a  philosopher,  the  midnight  refuge  of  a 
brainy  man.  Shelves  groaned  under  heavy 
tomes,  and  books  of  every  age  and  clime  lay 
in  scholastic  confusion  on  the  professor's  desk. 

A  man  of  engaging  presence,  is  Professor 
June,  but  of  a  manner  so  retiring  and  of  a 
voice  so  low  that  no  one  would  suspect  his 
avocation.  Even  his  vocation  might  not  be 
guessed,  were  it  not  for  the  sign  upon  his 
dwelling,  for  there  is  nothing  pedantic,  nothing 

[43] 


KA TRINA 


didactic  about  the  man;  a  little  tendency  to 
absent-mindedness,  perhaps,  behind  his  gold- 
rimmed  spectacles  —  an  inclination,  it  may  be, 
to  let  his  thoughts  stray  from  the  matter  in 
hand  into  the  Elysian  fields  of  the  imagination 
-  but  nothing  more. 

Harned,  the  city-editor,  began  to  skim 
hurriedly  the  score  of  pages  that  remained. 
Time  pressed  and  his  desk  was  buried  in 
other  manuscripts,  but  the  final  paragraph, 
breathing  with  the  writer's  soul,  now  held  his 
eye: 

Thus,  in  the  seclusion  of  his  cottage  cell, 
surrounded  by  his  books,  dearest  of  his  friends, 
writes  the  historian.  He  hears,  perchance, 
between  his  lines,  the  voice  of  his  child  sing- 
ing blithely  in  an  adjoining  chamber,  that 
child  the  solace  of  his  heart  bereft,  bearing 
not  only  her  mother's  name,  but  in  her  fair 
young  face  —  or  so  it  seems  to  him,  as  he 
gazes  upon  her  in  the  evening  shadows  —  the 
very  light  and  lineaments  of  her  mother's 
countenance.  Does  Professor  June  say  this? 
No.  Such  things  lie  too  deep  for  words;  they 
are  to  be  subtly  felt,  hidden  beneath  the  gentle 
exterior  of  this  man  of  letters  —  this  man 
whom  no  reverses  daunt,  who  looks  life's 
[44] 


THE    CUB-REPORTER'S     TALE 

mutability  in  the  face  and  tells  you  smilingly  — 
"I  am  an  optimist." 

When  Addison  Wrenn  returned  from 
luncheon  he  paused  a  moment  upon  the 
threshold,  where,  unobserved  himself,  the 
crack  of  the  door  provided  him  with  a  pre- 
liminary and  precautionary  view  of  Harned's 
desk.  The  city-editor  seemed  undisturbed; 
was  solemnly  engrossed  as  usual  in  his  heads 
and  his  blue-penciling,  and  did  not  even  raise 
his  eyes  as  the  youth  entered,  passing  as  quietly 
and  unpretentiously  as  possible  to  his  usual 
chair.  Even  there,  though  seen  obscurely 
from  the  rear,  Harned  had  every  appear- 
ance of  a  cold,  impassive,  impervious  kind  of 
man. 

"Mr.  Wrenn!'" 

Addison  leaped  from  his  seat,  and  an  instant 
later  found  himself  standing,  breathless,  by 
Harned's  desk. 

"Wrenn,  get  out  to  99  Fielding  Avenue  as 
soon  as  possible.  Crazy  man's  killed  himself 
by  jumping  into  a  soap  vat.  Hike!" 

" W  —  what's  his  name,  sir?" 

"  How  the  devil  do  I  know?  I  say— Wrenn!" 
[45] 


KA TRIN  A 

lf  Yes,  sir"  —  from  the  doorway. 

"Telephone  in!" 

"All  right,  sir." 

"And  Wrennl" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"I  only  want  the  facts,  you  know." 

"All  right,  sir." 

It  was  after  three  when  Wrenn  returned. 
The  soap-vat  story  was  in  print,  first  page,  and 
word  for  word  as  he  had  telephoned  it  from 
a  corner  pharmacy,  but  the  other,  the  corking 
story,  was  nowhere  to  be  seen;  that  is,  nowhere 
among  the  double-heads,  which  he  scanned 
twice  to  be  quite  certain,  his  throat  dry  and 
his  eyes  on  the  verge  of  tears. 

He  found  it  later,  low  down,  in  a  corner  of 
the  sporting  page,  beneath  an  advertisement 
of  patent  medicine: 

Professor  William  June,  the  historian,  of 
43  Abercrombie  Street,  is  much  disappointed 
though  not  discouraged,  by  the  fact  that  a 
Board  of  Education  Committee  has  declined 
to  recommend  his  new  local  history  as  a  text- 
book for  the  schools.  When  seen  this  after- 
noon by  a  reporter  for  the  Herald,  Chairman 
Flagg  explained:  "Courses  are  already  over- 

[46] 


THE    CUB-REPORTER'S    TALE 

crowded,  and  besides,  it  was  considered  un- 
wise for  the  Board  to  father  a  work,  however 
worthy,  dealing  with  delicate  matters  of  a 
political  and  personal  nature  in  the  history 
of  our  town." 

At  five  that  night  Billy  Buck's  place  in  Jay 
Street  was  a  house  of  mourning. 

"What'll  June  think  of  me?     How  can  I 

look  him  in  the  face  ?     What's  a  man  to  do  ? 

-  with  old  Gradgrind  Harned  on  the  desk  ? 

What  chance  have  you  got  ?   What  chance  have 

I?    Hell!    What  chance  has  Literature?" 


[47] 


IV 


A   GENTLE  ART 

A  CARRIER-BOY  with  the  sound  of  marbles 
rolling  in  his  ears,  and  two  prize  cornelians 
and  a  lucky  glassy  in  his  trouser's  pocket, 
must  be  of  an  inventive  turn  of  mind  unless  he 
would  lose  half  the  joy  of  living.  Some  such 
necessity  disclosed  the  fact  that  the  porch  at 
43  Abercrombie  Street  was  but  a  smart  fling 
from  the  picket  fence;  that,  without  ever  open- 
ing the  gate  at  all,  a  Herald,  doubled  and 
wadded  to  fit  the  palm,  could  be  hurled  to  the 
very  door  itself,  to  be  found  at  leisure  and 
gathered  in  by  that  selfsame  "slender,  blue- 
veined  hand"  which  had  fired  the  imagination 
of  Addison  Wrenn.  On  the  unhappy  evening 
when  Literature  met  with  such  a  stinging 
blow,  the  paper  had  scarcely  fluttered  to  the 
mat  when  the  door  was  opened,  by  some  one 
who  must  have  been  waiting  at  the  knob. 
Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  Addison  was  not 
the  only  disappointed  soul  that  night,  though 
the  mild  amazement  of  Professor  June  and  the 

[48] 


A    GENTLE    ART 


indignation  of  his  little  daughter,  when  they 
found  what  they  were  searching  for,  were  not 
of  that  anguish  hitherto  expressed.  What 
pangs  their  modesty  might  have  suffered,  had 
the  cub-reporter's  corking  story  actually  ap- 
peared in  type,  is  beyond  the  limits  of  this 
other  tale,  but  as  it  was,  the  professor  gazed 
blankly  through  his  spectacles  at  Katrina's 
open  displeasure  and  chagrin. 

"Why,  I  think  it's  horrid,"  she  declared, 
"  to  go  to  people's  houses  and  ask  them  all  sorts 
of  private  questions,  and  have  them  be  nice  to 
you,  and  then  not  print  a  word  —  not  a  single, 
solitary  word  they  say!  And  after  all  the 
gingerbread  I  gave  him!" 

"Of  course,"  she  went  on,  "one  doesn't 
give  gingerbread  just  to  be  put  into  the  paper, 
but  if  one  takes  it  — " 

She  paused.  What  words  could  express  the 
perfidy,  the  gross  ingratitude  of  the  cub- 
reporter  ? 

"Three  slices,  too!" 

"We  must  not  be  hasty,"  her  father  said, 
"though  it  does  seem  strange." 

"  Strange ! "  she  repeated.  "  Why,  father,  it's 
positively  rude!" 

[49] 


KA TRIN  A 


"Still,"   he  remarked,   gazing   absently  at 
the  Herald,  which  he  held  loosely  in  his  hand, 
"there  must   be  some  reason,   you   know  - 
some   reason   we   can   only   guess    at."     He 
paused.     "  Why,  it's  on  the  sporting-page." 

Katrina  leaned  upon  his  shoulder. 

;*  Yes!"  she  replied  —  a  "yes"  of  such  con- 
centrated horror  and  disapproval  that  she 
need  not  have  added,  "  Oh,  I  think  it's  insult- 
ing, father — think  of  it!  — to  be  put  in  the 
very  same  place  with  jockeys  and  prize- 
fighters!" 

"They  printed  what  Flagg  had  to  say,"  the 
professor  added. 

Katrina  set  her  lips  tightly,  but  could  not 
refrain : 

"  Maybe  Mrs.  Flagg  gave  him  {our  slices  of 
gingerbread." 

Her  father  laid  the  Herald  upon  his 
desk. 

"Ah,  well,"  he  said,  "the  young  man  may 
not  be  to  blame,  my  dear.  He  seemed  a  very 
earnest  young  fellow." 

"Well,  I  think  any  one  can  afford  to  be 
earnest,"  the  little  girl  replied  with  grave 
scorn,  "when  one  has  been  given  —  when  one 

[50] 


A    GENTLE    ART 


has  been  treated  hospitably  by  perfect 
strangers." 

Her  father  made  no  reply.  He  was  gazing 
thoughtfully  into  space. 

"Mr.  Larry  would  not  have  acted  so," 
declared  Katrina. 

"Mr.  Larry?"  the  professor  asked.  "Who 
is  Mr.  Larry?" 

"Why,  don't  you  remember?  Don't  you 
remember  the  newspaper-man  who  was  so 
nice  to  me  last  spring,  who  brought  me  all  the 
way  home  under  his  umbrella?" 

Her  father  nodded,  vaguely. 

"  Ah,  yes.     I  think  I  do." 

"He  was  too  much  of  a  gentleman  to  do 
such  things,"  Katrina  added. 

"It  seems  inexplicable,"  the  professor  said, 
as  much  to  himself  as  to  the  child,  and  without 
a  trace  of  resentment  in  his  low,  deliberate 
tones,  "that  the  Herald  should  have  failed  so 
utterly  to  grasp  the  public  importance  of  the 
plan  —  its  vital  elements  —  its  high  purpose. 
If  it  had  been  the  Journal — " 

"How  do  you  know  that  Mr.  Flagg  didn't 
tell  them  not  to  put  it  in  ?"  Katrina  asked. 

The  prof  essor  gazed  upon  her  in  astonishment. 
[51] 


KA TRINA 


"Oh,  no,"  he  said.  "Mr.  Flagg  wouldn't 
do  that." 

But  Katrina's  imagination  had  been  kindled. 

"I  shouldn't  be  surprised  a  bit,"  she  as- 
serted, "if  the  School  Board  had  paid  them 
to  keep  it  out!" 

"But  why?"  her  father  asked. 

"Why,  for  fear  that  the  people  would  find 
out  what  they  had  done,  and  rise  up  and  make 
them  take  the  history." 

The  professor  shook  his  head. 

"People  do  do  such  things,"  Katrina  pro- 
tested. "The  papers  say  so  themselves." 

"No,"  said  her  father.  "The  Board  of 
Education  wouldn't  dare  to  do  a  thing  like 
that;  they  are  respected  citizens,  my  child. 
Mr.  Flagg  is  a  prominent  member  of  the 
Methodist  Church." 

"But  every  once  in  a  while,"  Katrina  per- 
sisted, "you  read  of  prominent  men  who  do 
such  things." 

"  You  hear  of  it  — yes,"  her  father  answered, 
"but  it  isn't  often  that  charges  so  serious  are 
ever  proved.  Besides,  human  nature,  my 
little  girl,  is  not  so  mercenary  as  some  people 
think.  Would  I  offer  or  accept  a  bribe  ?  No. 

[52] 


A    GENTLE    ART 


Well,  then,  what  right  have  I  to  suppose  that 
other  men  would  do  so  ?  —  other  men  with 
little  daughters  of  their  own?"  He  turned 
mildly  to  his  writing. 

"  Well,  anyway,  father,"  Katrina  said,  rising, 
"it  will  be  a  long,  long  time  before  I'll  give 
any  more  gingerbread  to  a  newspaper-man  — 
so  there!" 

The  next  afternoon  Larry  McRae,  turning 
by  chance  into  Abercrombie  Street,  lost  in 
thought,  suddenly  became  aware  of  a  small 
figure  at  his  side,  and  a  clear  voice  — 

"Oh,  I  thought  you'd  come!" 

—  and  looking  closely,  in  amazement,  found 
himself  face  to  face  with  Katrina  June. 

"Ah!"  he  said. 

"I  felt  sure  of  it,"  she  told  him,  her  eyes 
shining  and  the  sweetest  of  smiles  upon  her 
lips. 

'You  did?"  he  inquired.  "And  how  was 
that?" 

"Oh,  I  felt  it  in  my  bones,"  she  replied. 
"I  told  father  that  you  were  too  much  of  a 
gentleman  to  do  such  a  thing." 

Mr.  Larry's  eyebrows  began  to  rise. 
[53] 


KA TRINA 


"Do  what,  my  dear?" 

"Why,  when  the  other  Herald  man  came, 
you  know,  and  then  never  printed  a  single 
word,  and  after  we  —  after  father  had  been 
so  kind  to  him,  I  said  to  father:  'Well,  Mr. 
Larry  wouldn't  have  acted  so  ? '  And  do  you 
know,  I  kind  of  felt  it  in  my  bones  that  you 
might  come,  when  you  heard  about  it.  And 
then,  just  now,  when  I  came  out  of  the  grocery, 
and  saw  you,  why  - 

She  smiled  up  happily  into  his  face. 

" —  I  ran.  Father's  at  home,  too,  and  he'll 
be  so  glad  to  see  you." 

She  turned,  and  Mr.  Larry  for  the  first  time 
realized  what  gate  they  stood  before. 

"Perhaps,"  he  said,  "I'd  better  call  to- 
morrow." 

"  Oh,  no,"  was  her  cheerful  answer.  "  Come 
right  in.  He'll  be  delighted." 

"But  I  wouldn't  disturb  him  for  the  world." 

"Oh,  he  isn't  busy,"  she  assured  him  ear- 
nestly. "  He's  mending  the  leg  of  the  sofa  with 
a  starch  box." 

But  Mr.  Larry  was  not  to  be  hurried. 

"Just  a  minute,  my  dear,"  he  began, 
vaguely.  "  Your  father  —  " 

[54] 


A    GENTLE    ART 


"Was  dreadfully  disappointed,"  she  con- 
fessed. "He  wouldn't  admit  it,  but  he  was. 
I  didnt  like  the  looks  of  the  other  man,  but  one 
can't  always  judge  by  appearances,  you  know; 
and  he  seemed  to  want  to  be  pleasant.  We 
did  everything  to  make  him  feel  at  home,  and 
then  to  have  him  act  so!" 

It  was  such  a  little  yard  that  already  they 
had  reached  the  steps,  which  Katrina  mounted 
like  a  bird,  and  she  was  opening  the  door 
before  Mr.  Larry  could  interpose, 

"But,  my  dear  child,  I  — " 

"Father!  Father!  Here's  Mr.  Larry  come 
from  the  Herald  to  interview  you." 

Mr.  Larry  paused  awkwardly  on  the  thresh- 
old. 

"  Come  in,"  she  said.     "  Don't  be  afraid." 

The  professor,  his  face  flushed,  his  spectacles 
pushed  upward  upon  his  perspiring  brow,  a  nail 
in  his  teeth,  and  a  hammer  in  one  hand  and  the 
starch  box  in  the  other,  appeared  instantly. 

"Come  in,"  he  said.     "I—" 

He  removed  the  nail. 

"I  was  just  attempting  a  little  carpentry." 

"So  your  daughter  informed  me.  I  hope 
it  is  successful?" 

[55] 


KA TRINA 


"Well,  no,"  Professor  June  replied,  looking 
ruefully  at  the  room  beyond.  "That  is:  not 
yet.  Sofa-wood  is  exceedingly  tenacious." 

"  I  believe  it  is,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Larry,  as  they 
passed  on  to  the  decrepit  sofa,  an  old-fashioned 
affair  now  leaning  heavily  upon  its  side.  "A 
leg  is  gone." 

"Quite  gone,"  the  professor  replied  sadly. 
"I  was  attempting  to  nail  this  starch-box  in 
its  place.  Empty  starch  boxes,  Mr.  — " 

"Larry,"  Katrina  said  softly. 
*  Empty  starch  boxes,  Mr.  Larry,  are  most 
useful  things  about  the  house.  I  always  keep 
one  or  two  on  hand.  Possibly  you  may  never 
have  observed,  sir,  but  placed  on  end,  with 
a  book  or  two  underneath,  a  starch  box  may 
be  made  the  exact  height  of  a  leg  of  furniture ! 
And  if  the  chair  or  sofa  wears  a  covering,  or 
skirt  as  it  were,  like  ours,  you  see  —  and 
especially  if  it  is  a  rear  leg  that  is  fractured, 
why- 

"  I  see,"  said  Mr.  Larry.  "  It  is  an  excellent 
notion.  I  must  suggest  it  to  my  landlady. 
But  if  the  sofa-wood  proves  so  obstinate, 
why  nail  the  box  on  at  all?  Why  not  just 
set  the  edge  of  the  sofa  upon  the  box?" 

[56] 


A    GEN TLE    ART 


"Ah  no,  no,  no,  no!"  the  professor  replied. 
"My  dear  sir- 

;<  You  see,"  Katrina  interposed,  "we've tried 
it  that  way,  and  it  worked  all  right  till  the 
other  day  a  lady  named  Mrs.  Riggin  — " 

"The  lady  in  question,"  the  professor  ex- 
plained, "  weighs  a  matter  of  two  hundred  and 
twenty-two  pounds,  sir." 

"Sat  down  suddenly,"  said  Katrina. 

Mr.  Larry  stared. 

"  Dear  me!"  he  said.  "And  the  starchbox  ?" 

"Jiggled  right  over!"  explained  Katrina. 

"And  the  lady?" 

"Fortunately,"  the  professor  replied,  "no 
bones  were  broken." 

"But  the  shock,"  said  Katrina,  "was  rather 
more  serious  than  we  supposed  —  wasn't  it 
father?" 

!<You  mean,"  Mr.  Larry  suggested,  "that 
Mrs.  Riggin  still  entertains  some  slight  feelings 
of- 

"Oh,  yes  —  all  over"  Katrina  hastened  to 
reply. 

" — resentment?"  Mr.  Larry  concluded. 

"  Abrasion,  she  said,"  the  little  girl  answered. 
"It's  Latin,  I  suppose." 

[57] 


KA TRINA 


The  professor,  gazing  at  the  broken  sofa, 
observed  reflectively, 

"  Mrs.  Riggin,  I  think,  was  quite  as  pleasant 
as  could  be  expected,  under  the  circumstances. 
You  can  see  where  I  tried  to  drive  the 
nails." 

"  Perfectly,"  Mr.  Larry  replied,  scanning  the 
fracture.  "Professor,  try  screws,  sir." 

The  professor's  face  kindled  instantly. 

"I  will!"  he  cried.  "Singular  that  I  never 
thought  of  screws.  Won't  you  sit  down,  Mr. 
Larry  ?  Katrina,  clear  a  chair  for  the  gentle- 
man. No,  sir,"  he  added  as  he  seated  himself 
at  his  cluttered  desk,  "I  tried  clothes-line, 
and  I  tried  picture-wire,  and  I  tried  nails,  sir, 
but  I'm  blest  if  I  ever  once  thought  of  screws!  " 

Mr.  Larry  looked  curiously  at  the  professor. 
He  was  a  little  slender  man  of  middle  age, 
with  a  very  noble  head,  scholarly  in  its  height 
of  brow  and  the  sparse  gray  locks  about  it,  but 
not  less  striking  in  the  child-like  mildness  of 
the  eyes,  which  like  the  mouth  beneath  were 
of  a  very  large  and  gravely  smiling  tender- 
ness. 

'You  wished  to  see  me,  Mr.  Larry.     What 
can  I  do  for  you?" 

[58] 


A    GENTLE    ART 


It  was  evidently  a  solemn  moment  for  Mr. 
Larry,  who  glanced  first  at  Katrina,  appeal- 
ingly,  and  then  doubtfully  at  the  professor. 

"  Perhaps  I'd  better  go,"  said  the  little  girl, 
rising. 

"Oh,  no!  No,  indeed!"  cried  Mr.  Larry, 
with  such  marked  earnestness  that  she  sat 
down  again. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  he  began,  clearing  his 
throat  -  "that  is,  the  Herald  is  very  sorry,  I 
am  sure,  to  have  caused  you  any  uneasiness, 
Professor  June." 

"Oh,  not  uneasiness,"  the  latter  protested. 
"  Some  little  disappointment,  perhaps,  but  not 
uneasiness,  sir." 

"  Disappointment,  I  meant  to  say,"  was  the 
reply.  "  Not  uneasiness,  of  course.  You  were 
warranted,  I  think,  in  disappointment." 

"It  was  nothing  after  all,"  the  professor 
said.  "We  won't  mention  it." 

Mr.  Larry's  face  brightened  suddenly. 

"Have  you  a  copy  of  last  night's  Herald 
handy  ?     I  —  I  didn't  bring  one." 

"Well,  no,"  the  professor  answered.  "I 
am  very  sorry,  but  the  paper  with  the  item  in 
it  was  used  for  kindling,  by  mistake." 

[59] 


KA TRINA 


"It  didn't  say  very  much,  you  know,"  re- 
marked Katrina. 

"  Oh,  no,  of  course  not,"  Mr.  Larry  hastened 
to  reply.  "  I  only  thought  we  might  —  might 
refresh  our  minds  a  little,  you  know;  but  it 
isn't  necessary." 

"  And  they  put  it  on  the  sporting-page,  too ! " 
said  the  little  girl. 

"Did  they?"  Mr.  Larry  answered.  "Ah, 
so  they  did." 

He  paused  thoughtfully. 

"Did  this — this  other  man,"  he  inquired, 
"  seem  to  —  seem  to  grasp  your  —  attitude, 
professor?" 

"Perfectly,"  Professor  June  replied. 

"Oh,  he  was  most  enthusiastic,"  Katrina 
added,  "wasn't  he,  father?" 

"He  appeared  pleased,"  was  the  modest 
corroboration. 

"Strange,"  murmured  Mr.  Larry,  gazing 
at  the  rug.  "I  don't  wonder  that  you  were 
astonished.  Still,  we  must  remember,  that  when 
a  reporter  falls  down  on  his  assignment— 

"Falls  down!"  cried  the  professor.  "You 
don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  this  young  man 
hurt  himself!" 

[60] 


A    GENTLE   ART 


Mr.  Larry  stared. 

"  Oh,  no,"  he  said.  "  I  spoke  professionally, 
that  was  all.  We  use  that  expression  when  a 
newspaper-man  fails  to  get  what  he  is  sent 
for." 

"But  we  gave  him  everything!"  the  pro- 
fessor replied. 

"I  should  think  we  did!"  interposed  Ka- 
trina.  "We  gave  him  everything  about  the 
house." 

Mr.  Larry  pricked  up  his  ears. 

"Well,  now,  professor,"  he  remarked  en- 
gagingly, hitching  up  his  chair,  and  slipping 
a  roll  of  copy-paper  from  his  coat.  "Sup- 
pose you  give  me,  now  —  everything  —  about 
the  house." 

The  professor  stared;  then  his  face  broke 
into  smiles  of  recognition. 

"Very  good!"  he  said.  "Good  joke,  Mr. 
Larry!  I  see  the  young  man  was  frank,  at 
least,  just  as  I  thought.  Well,  now,  Katrina  ?" 

He  beamed  suggestively. 

"  I  think  we  might,  don't  you  ?  That  is,  if 
there's  any  left,  my  dear?" 

Katrina  rose. 

"I'll  go  and  see,"  she  said  sweetly;  "but 
[61] 


KA TRINA 


I'm  not  quite  sure;  and  it  won't  be  so  fresh  as 
it  was  yesterday." 

Mr.  Larry's  face  — 

"Why,"  he  said,  "I  — I  hope  I'm  not  too 
late,  and  of  course  you  are  not  to  go  to  any 
trouble  in  the  matter.  I  simply  want  what 
you  gave  the  other  man." 

Katrina  glanced  at  the  professor,  and  the 
professor  at  Katrina,  and  Mr.  Larry  gazed 
from  one  to  the  other  in  great  astonishment. 

"I  see  there  is  some  misunderstanding,"  he 
said  earnestly.  "Pray  be  seated,  Katrina." 
His  tone  was  so  commanding  that  the  little 
girl  sank  into  a  chair  without  a  word. 

"And  now,  professor,"  he  continued  with 
business-like  directions,  "let  me  inquire,  first, 
where  is  the  house  ?  " 

"House?"  repeated  the  professor,  blankly. 

"Why,  yes  —  house,  I  think  you  said." 

"Oh! "cried  Katrina.  "I  know, father.  He 
wants  to  know  what  our  number  is!  Of 
course." 

A  great  relief  dawned  in  the  professor's 
countenance. 

"O  — oh!"  he  said.  "Forty-three  Aber- 
crombie  Street." 

[62] 


A    GENTLE    ART 


Katrina  thought  Mr.  Larry  snickered  till 
she  looked  more  sharply;  there  was  no  expres- 
sion in  that  wooden  face.  -i 

"  For-ty-three  Aber-crombie  Street,"  he  re- 
peated gravely,  jotting  it  down.  "And  now, 
professor,"  he  said  cheerfully,  returning  the 
copy-paper  to  his  pocket  and  leaning  back 
comfortably  in  his  chair,  "suppose  you  tell 
me  —  what  you  told  the  other  man." 

The  professor's  face  flushed. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "where  shall  I  begin?" 

"I'll  leave  that  entirely  to  you,"  Mr.  Larry 
replied,  gazing  thoughtfully  out  of  the  study 
window.  "  Every  man  knows  his  own  affairs 
best." 

He  turned  smilingly. 

:'You  are  certainly  better  acquainted  with 
this  matter  than  I  am." 

His  expression  was  a  droll  mixture  of  good- 
humor  and  emphatic  earnestness. 

"It's  really  very  interesting,"  Katrina  re- 
marked. "At  least  /  think  so." 

"I'm  sure  it  is,"  Mr.  Larry  replied,  and  I 
would  suggest  that  what  your  father  leaves  out, 
you  might  supply  —  to  better  fix  the  matter 
in  my  mind,  you  know." 

[63] 


KA TRIN  A 


He  was  still  smiling,  as  he  turned  again  to 
the  professor. 

"How  long,"  he  asked,  "have  you  had  this 
-  thing  —  upon  your  mind  ?" 

"Years,"  was  the  answer.  "You  under- 
stand, of  course,  that  it  is  not  so  much  that 
my  long  labor  has  been  rejected,  as  that  its 
purpose  —  an  old,  old  hobby  of  mine  — 
should  be  deemed  so  trivial." 

"I  can  quite  understand  yonr  feelings  on 
that  score,  professor,"  Mr.  Larry  heartily 
assured  him. 

"And,  moreover,"  Professor  June  went  on, 
"that  I  should  be  denied  a  further  hearing  by 
the  Board. 

"Ah,  yes  —  the  Board!"  cried  Mr.  Larry, 
nodding  his  head  significantly.  "That's  the 
rub." 

"And  by  the  full  Board,"  declared  the  pro- 
fessor, with  growing  emphasis. 

"By  all  means,"  Mr.  Larry  agreed.  "Not 
by  half  the  Board,  or  a  quarter  of  the  Board, 
or  by  a  Board  committtee  —  not  by  a  jug- 
full —  but  by  the  full  Board  in  session  as- 
sembled." 

"Exactly,"  Professor  June  replied. 
[64] 


A    GEN  TIE    ART 


"Now,  your  idea,"  Mr.  Larry  went  on, 
rousing  himself  to  an  upright  posture  and  fix- 
ing the  professor  with  his  eyes;  "that  is,  of 
course,  your  fundamental  idea,  if  I  under- 
stand it,  is  — " 

He  paused  expectantly. 

"My  hope,"  Professor  June  replied,  his 
face  growing  in  animation,  "  has  been  to  foster 
among  our  future  citizens  civic  traditions  and 
civic  pride,  believing,  Mr.  Larry,  that  if  our 
schoolboys  — " 

:<Yes,  and  our  schoolgirls  too,"  Mr.  Larry 
interposed  with  great  earnestness. 

"True,"  the  professor  agreed.  "Believing, 
I  say,  that  if  our  school  children  were  in- 
structed not  only  in  the  history  of  their  nation, 
but  in  that  of  their  native  town  as  well  —  how 
it  was  founded  in  this  western  wilderness,  how 
it  sprang  up  and  grew  among  the  farms,  and 
how  the  battles  for  its  order,  its  beauty,  and 
its  prosperity  were  fought  and  won  by  citizens 
dead  and  gone  — " 

"  And  well-nigh  forgotten,"  said  Mr.  Larry. 

"Exactly,"  said  Professor  June.  "Believ- 
ing, I  say,  that  such  a  study,  Mr.  Larry,  would 
result  in  a  more  intelligent,  a  more  conscien- 
[65] 


KA TRINA 


tious  and  loyal  citizenship,  and  that  a  wiser  and 
more  efficient  local  government  would  most 
assuredly  ensue." 

"Professor,"  Mr.  Larry  replied  warmly, 
"the  thing  dawns  on  me;  it  appeals  to  me;  I 
see  now  that  I  never  really  comprehended  the 
matter  before.  And  you  propose  to  do  this, 
if  I  grasp  your  purpose,  sir,  by  - 

He  paused  as  expectantly  as  before. 

"Yes,"  Professor  June  replied.  "I  proposed 
to  do  it  in  the  manner  already  familiar  to 

you." 

"Ah,  yes,"  Mr.  Larry  quickly  answered, 
"but  let  us  go  into  details,  professor  —  as  if  I 
knew  nothing  —  nothing,  you  understand ;  as 
if  I  had  come  here  to  interview  you  entirely 
ignorant  of  what  you  had  done,  of  your  plan, 
of  its  high  purpose.  Let  us  have  no  cloudy 
conceptions,  my  dear  professor.  This  is  an 
important  public  matter.  You  propose,  then, 
to  accomplish  this  by  means  of- 

He  waited  patiently. 

"Why,"  Professor  June  responded,  "by 
means  of  my  history,  as  you  know;  my  history 
of  the  town  prepared  solely  as  a  text -book  for 
the  public  schools." 

[66] 


A    GEN T  LE    ART 


"Good!"  said  Mr.  Larry,  smiling  and  nod- 
ding vigorously.  "  Such  was  my  understand- 
ing of  your  plan,  professor,  but  I  desired  a 
definite  expression  of  it  from  your  own  lips, 
sir  —  as  a  matter  of  form." 

He  seemed  elated,  and  rising  suddenly  be- 
gan to  pace  the  floor,  to  and  fro,  between  the 
desk  and  the  chair  where  Katrina  sat,  lost  in 
wonder. 

"  If  I  have  caught  your  idea,  professor,"  he 
now  continued,  "you  hold  that  it  might  be 
wiser  to  teach  our  schoolboys  a  little  less 
about  ancient  monuments  and  a  little  more 
about  those  marble  forms  of  departed  citizens 
which  they  see  and  wonder  at  among  the  green 
leaves  of  our  parks." 

"Exactly! "  said  Professor  June. 

"In  which  event,"  Mr.  Larry  proceeded  to 
remark,  "our  local  epitaphs,  as  it  were, 
whether  on  memorial  tombs  and  monuments, 
or  in  the  names  of  our  public  places,  would  be 
more  eloquent  to  the  public  eye!" 

"My  idea  exactly!  "  said  Professor  June. 

"In  other  words,"  said  Mr.  Larry,  gazing 
far  out  into  the  street,  "who  was  old  Aber- 
crombie  ?  And  what  right  had  he  to  all  these 
[67] 


KA TRIN  A 


memorial  tablets  on  our  civic  lamp-posts,  our 
corner  dwellings,  and  our  corner  trees  ?  And 
what  of  Bates  of  Bates  Street,  and  Barker 
of  Barker,  and  Ledyard  of  Ledyard,  and  the 
mythical  Yerrington  who  has  a  whole  green 
square,  fountain  and  all,  to  his  renown  ?  And 
why  is  the  library  called  the  Peterborough? 
And  who  had  the  forethought,  and  the  enter- 
prise, and  the  money,  maybe,  to  project  those 
gardens  by  the  river  side  whose  flowery  love- 
liness we  accept  so  thoughtlessly  in  our  leisure 
hours?  And  the  pond  where  our  little  boys 
sail  their  boats?  And  the  Zoo,  which  has 
added  materially  to  the  welfare  of  a  worthy 
and  heretofore  neglected  section  of  our  citi- 
zens —  the  peanut-men  ?" 

The  professor  was  well-nigh  speechless  with 
delight. 

"  That's  it ! "  he  cried,  laughing  heartily,  with 
the  tears  stealing  from  his  eyes.  "That's  it; 
that's  my  idea,  sir;  you've  hit  it;  I  couldn't 
have  said  it  better  myself.  Eh,  Katrina?" 

"Oh,  I  think  it's  lovely!"  cried  the  little 
girl.  "  Mr.  Larry,  I  don't  see  how  you  could 
think  it  all  out  so  quick!" 

"  Not  much  like  the  other  fellow,"  the  pro- 
[68] 


A    GENTLE    ART 


fessor  asserted,  gazing  admiringly  at  Mr. 
Larry. 

"  No  —  o !  Not  at  all,"  Katrina  replied. 
"Why,  the  other  reporter  made  father  do  all 
the  talking!" 

Mr.  Larry  only  laughed  softly. 

"I  tell  you,"  the  professor  declared  with 
warmth,  "  interviewing  is  an  art,  Mr.  Larry ! 
It's  an  art,  sir." 

"Possibly,"  was  the  modest  answer.  "A 
very  gentle,  gentle  art,  professor." 

"It  is  wonderful!  —  wonderful,"  was  the 
other's  comment,  "how  you  have  caught  the 
spirit  of  my  plan! " 

"Have  you  a  copy  of  your  history?"  Mr. 
Larry  asked. 

The  professor  took  from  a  shelf  a  small  red 
volume,  published,  as  he  confessed,  with  his 
own  savings.  Opening  to  the  title-page,  Mr. 
Larry  read  it,  half  aloud,  till  he  reached  the 
names : 

BY  WILLIAM  AND  KATRINA  JUNE. 

"My  wife,"  the   professor  explained  in   a 
lower  voice,  "  was  a  great  help  to  me." 
[69] 


KA TRINA 


Mr.  Larry  closed  the  book  and  took  the 
professor  warmly  by  the  hand. 

"  I  must  be  going,"  he  said.  "  I  will  do  what 
I  can." 

But  as  he  turned  away,  Katrina,  who  had 
slipped  out  unobserved,  entered  smilingly  with 
a  plate  of  gingerbread  in  her  hands. 


[70] 


UNDER  THE   ROSE 

EVERY  year  Mr.  Larry  solemnly  resolved 
to  buy  his  Christmas  gifts  in  ample  season, 
and  every  year  bought  them  as  usual  on 
Christmas  eve.  He  would  be  taken  suddenly 
in  the  afternoon  with  a  kind  of  chill  for  which 
wonted  restoratives  were  unavailing,  and  was 
then  to  be  seen,  muffled  in  thought,  his  face 
drawn  with  an  expression  of  pained  anxiety, 
and  his  jaws  set,  while  he  wandered  from 
window  to  window  and  counter  to  counter  in 
his  yearly  quest.  He  had  not  realized  It  was 
so  near,  was  his  explanation;  he  must  get 
something  for  Fanny's  boy  —  and  for  Minerva, 
the  landlady's  daughter  —  and  for  John's 
Elsie. 

"How  big  is  the  child?"  literal  clerks  had 
a  way  of  asking. 

"I  don't  know;  I  haven't  seen  her  in  years." 

"Then  she  must  be  grown  up." 

She  might  be  grown  up;  and  she  might  not. 
Mr.  Larry  really  could  not  say.  But  John's 

[71] 


KA TRIN  A 


Elsie  lived  nine  hundred  miles  to  the  eastward, 
and  to-morrow  was  Christmas,  and  trusting 
to  Heaven  and  a  night-express,  he  must  get 
something  into  the  mail.  Well  it  was  for 
him  on  such  occasions  that  there  was  always 
a  handkerchief  counter  for  John's  Elsie,  and 
a  necktie  counter  for  Fanny's  boy.  Little 
girls,  grown-up  or  not,  all  have  noses,  he  re- 
flected, and  neckties  are  always  handy,  even 
in  drawers,  or  hung  on  gas  jets  against  emer- 
gencies that  never  arise.  The  book  shelf  too 
was  a  safe  harbor  in  the  eleventh  hour;  poems 
are  always  in  good  taste  —  whether  read  or 
not,  Mr.  Larry  observed  in  his  "Cap  and 
Bells." 

Striving  valiantly  with  the  shopping  throngs 
it  was  a  consolation  that  other  people  too 
seemed  to  have  forgotten;  and  after  dinner 
when  the  city  was  aglow,  and  the  streets  and 
toy  shops  were  crammed  with  parents  and 
the  children  who  on  other  nights  are  put  to 
bed,  Mr.  Larry  —  handkerchiefs,  necktie  and 
poems  sent  —  liked  to  roam  aimlessly,  gazing 
and  wondering  with  the  rest.  It  was  his  joy 
to  stand,  waist  deep  in  other  people's  children, 
beaming  upon  the  mechanical  toys  that  whirred 

[72] 


UNDER    THE    ROSE 


and  squeaked  for  them,  climbed,  hobbled,  ran, 
careening  perilously  near  the  counter's  edge  to 
raise  their  shrieks,  and  turning  in  the  nick  of 
time  with  sly  humor  in  their  painted  faces ;  and 
when  they  stopped,  Mr.  Larry  noted  with  de- 
light the  cheerful  patience,  the  mute  and 
dry-eyed  resignation  with  which  they  waited, 
bottom-side  up,  perhaps,  to  be  wound  up 
again. 

There  was  one  in  particular  this  Christmas 
eve:  an  amiable  rabbit,  which  bounded  mar- 
vellously upon  occasion,  but  was  most  admired 
for  a  certain  very  bunny-like  tremulousness 
about  the  nose  and  whiskers.  It  had,  more- 
over, as  pink  an  eye  as  any  live  rabbit  of  its 
age  and  weight  in  twenty  hutches,  and  was 
altogether  the  cunningest  beastie  in  the  show. 
Mr.  Larry  watched  its  antics  with  increasing 
glee,  till  wandering  off  in  sheer  desperation 
and  fulness  of  soul,  he  would  seize  the  first 
youngster  he  could  lay  his  hands  on. 

"Hi  there!  Boy!  Have  you  seen  the  rab- 
bit?" 

"No." 

"You  come  with  me." 

Distracted  parents  now  and  then  interfered, 
[73] 


KA TRIN  A 


looking   askance   at   the   tall    abductor,   and 
collaring  their  sons. 

"Here!  where  are  you  going?" 

"To  see  the  rabbit." 

"What  rabbit?" 

"  Why  he  says  there's  a  rabbit." 

"Well,  you  stay  here." 

"But  my  dear  parent,"  Mr.  Larry  would 
interpose  earnestly, "  have  you  seen  the  rabbit?  " 

"No." 

"Then  come  with  me." 

A  score  of  parents  thus  saw  what  they 
might  have  missed,  and  at  least  four  several 
kidnapped  youngsters  were  surprised  next  day; 
but  the  charming  feature  of  this  rabbit  busi- 
ness, to  Mr.  Larry,  the  more  he  thought  of  it, 
was  the  exceedingly  natural-historical  manner 
in  which  new  bunnies,  pink-eyed  and  amiable 
and  sensitive  of  nose  as  ever,  appeared  from 
the  hutch  behind  the  counter  as  fast  as  the  old 
ones  were  wrapped  away. 

"At  which,  at  first,  I  marveled,"  Mr.  Larry 
casually  observed  to  the  Nearest  Parent,  "till 
I  chanced  to  remember  the  rabbit's  predis- 
position, activity  and  proclivity  for  the  singu- 
lar phenomena  of  which  I  speak." 

[74] 


UNDER    THE    ROSE 


The  Nearest  Parent  eyed  Mr.  Larry  in 
some  perplexity,  but  ventured  to  remark: 

"Out  West  I've  seen  more  darned  rabbits 
than  you  could  shake  a  stick  at." 

"Exactly!"  cried  Mr.  Larry,  warmly,  "Just 
what  I  say,"  adding,  as  he  gazed  upon  the 
Nearest  Parent  with  something  akin  to  ad- 
miration in  his  face:  "Permit  me  to  remark, 
sir,  that  you  have  a  most  trenchant  way  of 
putting  things." 

"You  —  you  like  rabbits?"  the  Nearest 
Parent  was  moved  to  suggest. 

"  Very  much,  sir." 

"You  have  children  of  your  own  perhaps?" 
remarked  the  father. 

"It  scarcely  follows,"  Mr.  Larry  pleasantly 
replied.  "  While  your  inference  is  perhaps  but 
natural  under  the  circumstances,  it  proves, 
sir,  that  you  have  never  partaken  of  a  succu- 
lent rabbit-pie.  You  have  my  condolence." 

But  the  Nearest  Parent  made  no  intelligible 
response  and  moved  off  with  his  wife  and 
family  as  swiftly  as  the  crowded  aisles  per- 
mitted, leaving  Mr.  Larry  to  pursue  the  sub- 
ject at  his  ease  and  pleasure,  which  he  did, 
and  satisfactorily  enough,  judging  by  the 

[75] 


KA TRIN  A 


smile  that  illumined  his  musings  for  some  time 
afterward.  Nor  was  he  more  successful  with 
the  mother  of  two  charming  little  girls,  who, 
upon  his  kindly  offering  to  wind  up  the  patent 
jig-a-ma-rig  for  their  amusement,  clucked 
indignantly  to  her  offspring,  and,  gathering 
them  in  her  skirts,  swept  safely  away. 

Even  the  clerks  began  to  note  him  in  a  watch- 
ful manner,  and  a  tall,  grenadierish  individual, 
argus-eyed,  appeared  surprisingly  at  every 
corner  Mr.  Larry  turned. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  Mr.  Larry  said, 
stepping  considerately  aside  as  they  met  by 
the  wooden-ware. 

Argus  made  no  reply. 

"Beg  pardon,"  said  Mr.  Larry,  as  cour- 
teously as  ever,  when  they  met  again  by  the 
cut-glass  water-bottles,  but  the  man  was  silent 
as  before. 

"The  fool's  deaf,"  said  Mr.  Larry,  turning 
abruptly;  but  at  the  roller  skates  he  again 
encountered  those  watchful  eyes. 

"  You  seem  disturbed,"  Mr.  Larry  remarked 
with  deep  solicitude.  "Is  there  anything  I 
can  do  for  you?  Do  you  ever  try  bromo- 
seltzer?" 

[76] 


UNDER    THE    ROSE 


But  Argus  frowned  and  moved  majestically 
away,  till  in  rounding  the  lace  goods  Mr.  Larry 
ran  full  tilt  upon  the  man. 

"Say,"  he  cried,  "you  and  I  appear  to  be 
hunting  for  the  same  fellow." 

"I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  we  were,"  was 
the  sharp  reply. 

Mr.  Larry  turned  and  watched  the  man 
curiously  as  he  passed  on,  head  and  shoulders 
above  the  throng.  Happily  they  did  not  meet 
again.  A  strange  unrest  and  gloom  had  fallen 
on  Mr.  Larry.  The  pleasure  of  wandering 
among  the  Christmas  counters  had  taken 
wings.  The  very  children,  even  the  pink- 
eyed  jumping  rabbit,  now  failed  to  charm. 
Wherever  he  strayed,  wherever  he  stopped, 
he  felt  eyes  looking.  They  pierced  his  back, 
so  that  he  turned  guiltily.  His  very  hands 
became  a  burden:  free,  they  would  arouse  sus- 
picion; in  his  own  pockets  they  might  cause 
alarm.  What  right,  apparently,  had  a  pur- 
chase-less bachelor  like  himself  to  be  prowling 
in  the  haunts  of  honest  domesticated  men 
with  children  to  buy  things  for? 

He  went  into  the  street,  but  even  there  he 
felt  how  purposeless  he  was  in  that  Christmas 

[77] 


KA TRIN  A 


multitude.  Children  were  raising  their  eager, 
half-scared  faces  to  a  dozen  sham  Santas  in 
masks  and  packs,  bowing  and  mumbling  on 
the  curb-stones  and  making  a  pretense  of 
jotting  down  fervent  prayers.  Families,  four 
abreast,  not  counting  bundles,  bumped  their 
way  cheerfully  from  store  to  store.  Laughing 
together,  linked  tightly  arm  in  arm,  they  swept 
lone  single  men  into  gutters  without  a  glance 
of  pity  or  a  word  of  shame. 

Mr.  Larry  took  refuge  in  Billy  Doe's,  where 
bachelors  are  made  at  home  and  minors  are 
not  permitted.  There  was  a  hearty  glow 
within,  and  a  comforting  noise  of  revelry  by 
the  bar,  where  he  soon  encountered  another 
fugitive,  a  man  named  Strout,  a  red-eyed 
refugee  imbibing  a  Tom  and  Jerry  and  dis- 
discoursing  on  the  joys  of  Christmas. 

"It  is  the  best  time  of  all  the  year,"  he  said. 
"  Yes,  sir,  there's  no  time  like  it.  It  does  a  man 
good.  It  opens  his  bosom.  It  warms  the 
cockles  of  his  heart  —  eh  ?" 

Mr.  Larry  nodded. 

"Why,  say,"  cried  Strout,  "my  bar-bill  at 
Christmas  amounts  sometimes  to  as  high 
as—" 

[78] 


UNDER    THE    ROSE 


The  sum,  doubtless,  was  prodigious,  but 
it  was  lost  in  the  laughter  of  a  party  opposite, 
so  that  Mr.  Larry  could  only  look  such  as- 
tonishment as  seemed  befitting  to  a  mighty 
tale. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Strout,  "Christmas  is  a 
high  old  time,  /  tell  you;  and  it's  a  mighty 
good  thing  that  it  only  comes  once  a  year." 

Mr.  Larry  nodded,  smilingly  as  before.  It 
was  already  Christmas  when  he  reached  the 
boarding-house.  Christmas  was  a  high  old 
time,  as  Strout  had  said,  but  to  Mr.  Larry 
there  was  no  illusion  any  longer  in  high  old 
times;  he  had  known  too  many,  and  this  one 
had  left  him  yawning,  less  in  fatigue  of  body 
than  in  heaviness  of  soul.  He  was  a  cup  too 
low,  Strout  would  have  told  him,  but  the  clear 
pure  wintry  air  through  which  he  had  come, 
alone  and  musing,  made  other  draughts  seem 
murky  cheer,  while  the  moonlit  snow,  traced 
with  the  shadows  of  the  naked  boughs  above 
him,  woke  wistful  memories  of  bob-sleds  and 
country  coasting,  Christmas  eves  ago. 

Opening  Mrs.  Wither's  door  with  his  latch- 
key, he  went  up  slowly  to  his  room  and  re- 
moved his  coat.  The  moon  made  other  light 

[79] 


KA TRIN  A 


unnecessary,  till  an  odd-looking  package  lying 
on  the  bureau  caught  his  eye,  and  the  mild 
radiance  from  his  frosty  window  proved  in- 
sufficient for  a  fine  inscription  on  the  card 
attached.  He  lighted  the  gas. 

"For  Mr.  Larry,  from  Katrina  June— and 
not  to  be  opened  till  he  removes  his  shoes  before 
his  fire." 

He  read  it  twice. 

"Before  my  fire,"  he  repeated,  smiling  at 
the  register,  through  which  some  faint  sug- 
gestion of  distant  coziness  rose  to  his  out- 
stretched hands.  Laughing  to  himself  he  laid 
his  fingers  upon  the  holly-red  ribbon  that 
bound  his  gift  —  but  paused. 

"Why  not?"  he  asked  himself.  "It  would 
please  the  child." 

First  looking  cautiously  about  to  see  that  the 
door  was  shut,  though  the  house  was  silent  as 
the  grave,  he  drew  off  one  heavy  shoe  and  then 
the  other,  and  placing  his  feet  upon  the  tepid 
scroll-work  of  the  register,  severed  the  bow- 
knot  with  his  pocket  knife  and  tore  from  the 
paper  a  pair  of  crimson  embroidered  slippers, 
gorgeous  gear,  which  he  held  up  critically, 
chuckling  and  muttering  to  himself  —  "  Well, 

[80] 


UNDER    THE    ROSE 


well,  well,  well  now:  Not  so  bad.  Pretty 
radiant,  but  not  so  bad,  Katrina"  —  and 
slipping  them  on  then,  with  tentative  wriggling 
of  his  toes,  he  leaned  back  thoughtfully  in  his 
chair.  For  some  little  time  he  sat  there 
quietly  with  a  pleased  expression  on  his  face. 

"They're  not  so  red  when  you  get  them  on," 
he  muttered,  and  looking  up,  added  slowly, 
"there's  whisky  from  Dudley,  and  whisky 
from  Hooker,  and  whisky  from  Bill."  Then 
he  dropped  his  eyes  again:  "And  now  here's 
-  hm  —  good  little  thing! " 

Rising  suddenly  to  his  roseate  feet  he  began 
to  hum,  something  tuneless  enough  to  be  his 
own  composing,  and  which  ended  in  a  throaty 
flourish  of  his  fuller  voice  — 

Ry-de-ry-de-rink-dum-duddy 

—  his  face  screwed  up  into  that  expression  of 
internal  agony  with  which  most  mortals  burst 
into  song.  At  the  same  instant  he  half-filled 
a  glass  from  one  of  the  three  tall  Christmas 
bottles  on  the  shelves,  and  pouring  in  water 
to  the  brim,  raised  the  liquor  to  the  level  of  his 
eyes,  drank  at  a  gulp,  and  finished  with  a  sigh. 
Then  he  lighted  a  cigarette;  then  he  drew  on 

[81] 


KATRIN A 


his  overcoat  again,  turning  the  collar  about  his 
ears,  for  the  room  was  colder  with  advancing 
night,  and  seating  himself  at  his  cluttered 
table,  pushed  back  its  papers  and  dipped  his 
pen: 

MY  DEAR  KATRINA  :  —  Sitting  this  evening  before 
my  cheerful  fire,  with  your  beautiful  slippers  on  —  em- 
broidered, I  take  it,  by  your  own  fair  hands  —  I  fell  to 
dreaming,  as  all  old  bachelors  are  supposed  to  do,  and 
ought,  I  am  sure,  if  only  in  deference  to  those  lovely 
stories  they  write  about  us.  I  do  not  mean  that  I  fell 
asleep,  but  into  that  revery  commonly  believed  to  be 
our  natural  state.  Any  man  clothed  in  such  magic  rai- 
ment is  bound  to  do  so,  I  suppose,  though  it  is  not  my 
custom,  even  in  slippers,  to  forget  the  world,  having,  I 
fear,  too  much  in  common  with  its  hard  realities  and  not 
enough  with  its  rosy  mists.  That  I  broke  the  habits 
of  a  lifetime  is  due,  my  child,  to  your  deft  fingers  and 
your  gentle  courtesy  hi  remembering  a  lone  man's 
Christmas  day.  Three  others  remembered  it,  but  alas ! 
my  dear,  in  most  worldly  spirits  I  —  you  only  with  true 
heavenly  grace. 

You  must  know  first  how  my  good  dog  Ponto  slept 
on  the  hearth-rug  at  my  feet,  while  the  Lady  Angora 
purred  her  national  anthem  in  my  softest  chair  —  so 
I  chose  another  to  wear  my  slippers  and  dream  my 
dream.  You  must  know  also  how  my  books  —  books 

[82] 


UNDER    THE    ROSE 


piled  to  the  very  ceiling,  shelf  on  shelf,  and  my  fine  en- 
gravings of  scenes  from  Shakespeare  and  Walter  Scott, 
all  seemed  to  doze  with  me.  My  rugs  in  the  firelight 
stretched  warm  about  me  like  Persian  gardens  in  the 
sun,  all  rose  and  golden  and  olive-green.  You  know 
the  ballad  — 

"  I  '11  sing  three  songs  of  Araby 

And  tales  of  fair  Cashmere  — 
Wild  tales  to  cheat  thee  of  a  sigh 
Or  charm  thee  to  a  tear." 

Well,  I  do  not  claim  such  magic  for  my  own  poor 
voice,  nor  do  I  play  the  dulcimer  (which  stands,  by  the 
way,  in  the  corner  farthest  from  my  fire  —  heat  cracks 
them  so)  yet  I  think  it  would  surprise  you,  that  dream 
of  mine,  which  was  heightend,  doubtless,  by  the  fire- 
light flush  reddening  as  it  passed  our  slippers,  and 
leaping  thence  to  the  mahogany  table  (which  was  my 
grandma's,  and  which  stands  now  in  the  very  center 
of  my  room)  turning  its  surface  to  the  bosom  of  a  lake 
at  sunset.  It  was  most  astonishing.  It  reminded  me 
of  Perkins's  Pond  up  in  New  Hampshire  when  I  stayed 
in  late  with  Spider  Ryder  and  the  Thomas  boys  and 
Fatty  Brown.  Me  and  the  Thomases  went  head- 
foremost, first  clip  off,  but  Fatty,  he  always  had  to  be 
kind  of  —  shoved. 

And  that  reminds  me  how  the  light  leaped  higher 
till  it  touched  the  rafters  —  my  room  is  a  beamed  one, 

[83] 


KA TRIN  A 


you  may  not  know,  of  weathered  oak  to  match  the  wains- 
cot, in  which,  by  the  by,  I  had  them  build  me  a  secret 
door,  a  sliding  panel  cunningly  devised,  in  case  I  — - 
really,  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  one  might,  you  know;  for, 
under  the  rose  —  and  mark  you,  I  mention  this  only 
to  you,  dear  child,  of  all  the  world  (knowing  your 
prudence)  the  smugglers,  my  love,  are  not  all  dead. 

Ah,  no!  You  ask  Fat  Brown  if  you  don't  believe 
me.  Ask  him  what  Neddy  Thomas  and  Sliver  McRae 
planned  out  at  Perkins's  that  afternoon  —  he  '11  know 
which  one.  But  don 't  you  tell !  !  !  My  sugar,  if 
you  do,  you  know  —  well,  it 's  lucky  for  me  that  I  've 
got  the  panel;  that's  all,  my  dear. 

But  if  They  catch  me  in  spite  of  that  .  .  .  you'll 
find  my  will  in  the  thirteenth  drawer  of  my  old  iron 
Portuguese  chest,  which  stands  in  the  south-east  cor- 
ner of  my  great  clothes  closet.  The  combination  is 

X  Q  1  Z  4  —  Buns 

three  times  and  you  've  got  it,  but  Gee !  look  out !  —  for 
the  lid  pops  open  and  fires  off  a  pistol  that  was  Captain 
Kidd's.  Fat  and  Me  found  it  by  Perkins's  Pond.  It 's 
only  blank  cartridge,  so  don 't  be  frightened,  but  Glory 
and  Snakes !  it  kicks  up  (the  devil  of)  a  racket,  Katrina, 
my  dear. 

Let's  be  more  cheerful.  I  hate  this  matter  of  the 
will,  though  it  must  be  mentioned,  now  that  you  know 
what  goes  before;  and  when  all's  said,  I'm  not  a  cow- 
ard (neither  was  Kidd),  and  my  only  regret  concern- 

[84] 


UNDER    THE    ROSE 


ing  my  own  particular,  peculiar  —  my  taking  off,  my 
dear,  is  the  fact  that  I  shan  't  be  around  when  Captain 
Kidd's  pistol  —  when  some  fool  opens  that  Portuguese 
chest. 

[Pardon  me  here :  I  was  called  just  then  to  fill  a  cup 
for  the  Dink  o'  Wa-wa  Girl,  who  sleeps  in  an  adjoin- 
ing chamber.  She  is  a  good  little  child,  but  is  never 
quite  ready  to  go  to  bed,  and  when  she  is  put  there 
against  her  will,  lies  awake  humming  and  thinking  up 
Things  —  questions  mostly :  what  makes  there  be  ele- 
phants ?  and  why  ain  't  fairies  ?  and  why  don't  you 
kiss  her  then  ?  And  if  you  have,  six  times  already,  and 
tell  her  so,  she  makes  that  last  faint,  pitiful  request 
which  one  were  a  brute  to  deny  the  rogue  —  though 
her  thirst  be  feigned.] 

It  is  for  you,  Katrina,  to  guess  my  dream.  Mystery 
it  is;  a  riddle  to  muddle  your  dear  young  mind,  and 
hidden  in  the  very  things  I've  told  you  here,  like  the 
picture-card  puzzles  we  used  to  have  —  to  find  the 
man's  face,  and  the  swan,  and  the  camel,  and  Heaven 
knows  what,  and  all  perhaps  in  an  old  oak  tree  with 
lambs  beneath.  You  turned  the  picture,  you  remem- 
ber, till  you  found  them  in  twisted  branches  and 
clustered  leaves.  You  must  turn  my  picture,  upside 
and  downside,  to  find  my  dream. 

You  must  find  it  yourself.  Oh,  you  mustn't  show 
this !  —  for  here  in  the  middle  is  the  part  about  —  you 
know.  It's  not  for  others,  who  would  soon  be  blab- 

[85] 


KATRIN A 


bing,  and  I  should  be  popping  through  the  secret  door 
and  where  it  leads  to.     (Some  day  you  '11  know.) 

I  had  always  wished  for  a  little  girl  to  share  my  secret, 
dreadful  and  shameful  though  it  is,  and  something  to 
be  whispered.  Then  the  slippers  came  and  I  knew  — 
by  the  color  —  that  I  had  found  her.  She  will  not 
mind,  then,  if  I  send  my  love,  as  a  kind  of  red  ribbon 
to  tie  up  my  thanks  with.  Remember  me  kindly  to 
her  father,  but  oh !  beware  lest  he  even  dream  of  what 
I  have  told  her,  for  he  knows  me  only  as 

ME.    LARRY. 

P.S.     Flames  tell  no  tales/ 


[86] 


VI 


PARTICEPS   CRIMINIS 

THE  little  embroidering  Katrina  had  expected 
a  letter  at  the  very  least;  down  in  her  heart  of 
hearts  she  had  even  hoped  that  Mr.  Larry 
might  come  himself  to  Abercrombie  Street,  to 
take  her  hand,  and  perhaps  to  —  perhaps  to 
raise  it  with  as  grave  a  gallantry  as  he  had 
used  before.  She  had  even  prepared  herself 
against  that  scene : 

"Oh,  Mr.  Larry,  what  are  slippers  com- 
pared with  your  kindness  to  father's  book!" 

Or,  better  still,  if  she  could  only  remember 
it,  when  the  crisis  came  with  its  natural  con- 
fusion : 

"Oh,  Mr.  Larry,  you  are  far  too  generous 
to  one  who  can  never,  never  thank  you  enough 
for  all  your  kindness  to  her  dear  father." 

From  which  it  appears  that  Katrina  knew 
how  they  did  such  things  in  books  —  those 
shelf-worn  books  that  her  mother  had  loved 
to  linger  over,  as  just  such  another  little 
slipper-embroidering  girl. 

[87] 


KA TRIN  A 


Dear  child!  Did  she  imagine  that  editors 
are  to  be  caught  so  easily  with  bits  of  trumpery 
needle- work  bouquets?  That  a  man  of  the 
world  would  surrender  to  a  pair  of  bright  red 
slippers  tied  up  with  holly-berry  ribbon  ?  She 
had  snared  his  feet  with  her  silken  threads. 
What  more?  Would  she  have  his  heart  as 
well? 

But  what,  after  all,  is  a  mere  disappoint- 
ment, pure  and  simple,  compared  to  the 
knowledge  that  the  man  you  have  just  made 
slippers  and  learned  kind  speeches  for,  knows 
another  little  girl  ?  —  younger,  it  is  true,  a 
mere  child,  but  a  girl  no  less,  for  whose  feigned 
thirstiness  he  would  break  your  letter  squarely 
in  two  ?  And  not  only  a  fibber,  but  a  naughty, 
disobedient  child  as  well,  who  should  go  to 
bed  willingly  when  her  parents  said  so,  and 
not  be  annoying  the  other  boarders  in  adjoin- 
ing rooms.  And  where  were  her  parents  all 
that  time?  Gadding  probably;  off  to  the 
theater,  no  doubt,  leaving  their  darling  to  the 
mercy  of  whoever  happened  to  be  around,  like 
poor  Mr.  Larry,  who  was  kindness  itself,  but 
needed  his  rest  when  his  work  was  done.  Sup- 
pose Mr.  Larry  had  not  been  at  home  ?  What 

[88] 


PARTICEPS    CRIMINIS 

then?  The  poor  little  thing  might  have  died 
of  thirst ! 

As  to  the  Other  Matter,  it  could  not  be 
true.  He  was  only  fooling.  Mr.  Larry,  a 
smuggler!  Mr.  Larry,  who  had  been  so  kind 
that  day  in  the  rain  ?  —  and  so  thoughtful  at 
the  gate?  Mr.  Larry,  who  had  written  that 
beautiful  article  in  the  Evening  Herald.,  a 
column  long,  on  her  father's  history?  Mr. 
Larry,  a  smuggler! 

He  said  so,  plainly  enough,  as  Katrina  made 
out  as  often  as  she  perused  his  letter;  and  she 
read  it  over  and  over,  many  times  daily,  in 
that  perfect  secrecy  which  he  enjoined,  not 
daring  to  mention  the  bare  possession  of  it  to 
her  father  lest  he  ask  hard  questions  and  learn 
the  contents,  which  might,  after  all,  prove  true, 
you  know.  It  was  foolish  to  think  so,  she  ad- 
mitted, but  when  one  is  asked  particularly, 
begged,  even  warned !  —  what  can  one  do  ? 

Of  course  the  smuggling  was  Mr.  Larry's 
dream.  She  had  said  that  from  the  very  first. 
Turning  his  letter  in  her  mind,  upside  and 
downside,  as  he  had  said,  there  seemed  no 
question  of  what  was  vision  and  what  reality. 
What,  she  had  asked  herself,  was  the  storiest 

[89] 


KA TRINA 


sounding  thing  in  all  the  letter?  Why,  this 
smugglety-business,  to  be  sure,  with  its  secret 
panel  and  its  Portuguese  chest.  The  rest  was 
beautiful,  and  just  what  a  bachelor's  letter  to 
a  child  should  be,  but  there  was  nothing  strange, 
nothing  wild  about  it:  firelight  and  bachelors 
go  together,  every  one  knows. 

Yet  it  seemed  odd  too  that  the  smuggling 
was  the  only  matter,  the  only  portion  of  his 
long  message,  that  he  warned  her  repeatedly 
not  to  tell.  She  was  not  to  breathe  it  to  her 
father,  even.  Why  should  a  man  fear  to  tell 
a  dream  ? 

True,  he  had  dared  her  to  ask  Fat  Brown. 
Who  was  Fat  Brown  ? 

It  occurred  to  Katrina  that  if  Mr.  Larry  were 
really  what  he  said  he  was  —  supposing,  of 
course,  such  a  thing  were  possible  —  it  would 
explain  what  she  had  never  been  able  to  under- 
stand: why,  for  example,  he  had  always  de- 
clined their  invitations  to  come  and  see  them, 
and  spend  an  evening  in  Abercrombie  Street, 
A  smuggler,  no  doubt,  would  be  busy  evenings. 
That  too  would  explain  why  he  never  asked 
them  to  his  lovely,  lovely,  oak-beamed  cham- 
ber, when  he  knew  she  loved  cats. 

[90] 


PARTICEPS    CRIMINIS 

There  was  a  Mrs.  Brown  on  Cedar  Street, 
and  a  Teenie  Brown  and  a  Johnny  Brown, 
and  there  had  been  a  Mr.  Brown,  not  fat  at 
all,  but  he  was  dead.  How  should  she  ask 
Fat  Brown  when  she  didn't  know  him  ?  and  even 
if  she  had  known  him,  would  she  have  dared  ? 

The  whole  thing  was,  of  course,  absurd. 
Would  a  real,  live  smuggler  confess  to  a  girl  ? 
-  who  might  tell  her  father  ?  —  who  might 
tell  the  police?  Not  that  she,  Katrina,  was 
the  tattle-tale  kind;  Mr.  Larry  knew  that;  he 
had  said  so  himself  -  "  knowing  your  pru- 
dence," had  been  his  words.  And  men  do 
confess  crimes;  must  tell  some  one,  she  had 
heard  it  said;  why,  what  was  that  story  her 
father  told  her  ?  —  of  the  man  with  the  long, 
long  furry  ears,  whose  barber,  quaking  lest 
the  dreadful  secret  escape  his  lips,  whispered 
it  into  a  hole  he  had  dug,  and  filled  the  hole 
up  again. 

Who  was  Fat  Brown  ? 

If  the  part  about  smuggling  wasn't  the 
dream,  what  was  the  dream?  Was  it  the 
Pistol?  If  it  was  the  Pistol,  got  up  to  scare 
her,  why  then  —  what  then  ? 

She  had  read  somewhere  that  a  child's  in- 
[91] 


KA TRIN  A 


tuition  is  sometimes  shrewder  than  a  grown 
person's  wits.  Her  father,  she  remembered, 
had  explained  it  to  her  —  and  she  had  had 
intuitions  ever  since  that  day.  She  had  had 
one,  as  she  now  recollected,  that  day  in  the 
rain.  It  had  struck  her  suddenly,  the  moment 
she  heard  Mr.  Larry  say  "newspaper-man," 
and  it  was  so  powerful  that  she  took  her  arm 
away!  Could  it  be  possible  as  she  first  had 
thought  ?  Were  they  wolves  in  sheep's  cloth- 
ing, these  newspaper-men  ?  —  smugglers  by 
night,  editors  by  day? 

"Father,"  she  asked,  "who  is  Fat  Brown?" 

"What's  that,  my  dear?" 

"Who  is  Fat  Brown?" 

The  professor  frowned. 

"Fat  Brown?" 

'  Yes,  Fat  Brown.     He's  a  friend,  I  believe 
of  Mr.  Larry's." 

Her  father  pondered. 

"I  never  heard  of  him.  Fat,  I  should  say, 
is  merely  a  nickname,  due,  I  presume,  to  the 
gentleman's  adiposity." 

"I  suppose  that's  it,"  Katrina  answered, 
and  said  no  more.  That  night  she  looked 
backward  on  the  stairs. 

[92] 


PARTICEPS    CRIMINIS 

"By  the  way,  McRae,"  the  professor  in- 
quired, a  day  or  two  afterward,  meeting  his 
friend  upon  the  street,  "who  is  Fat  Brown? 
Katrina  seemed  curious  about  him.  She 
rather  imagined  you  knew  the  man." 

"We  were  boys  together,"  Mr.  Larry  re- 
plied. "Were  I  a  smuggler — " 

He  paused  grimly  and  fixed  the  professor 
with  his  eye. 

"Were  I  a  smuggler,  I  would  trust  Fat 
Brown  with  the  key  of  my  Portuguese  chest." 

"My  dear,"  the  professor  said,  that  night 
at  dinner.  "  McRae  said  a  singular  thing  to- 
day. I  asked  him  about  Fat  Brown." 

"Father!  what  did  he  say?" 

"Why,  he  said,"  the  professor  replied  with 
deliberation,  between  his  mouthfuls,  "that  if 
he  were  a  —  if  he  were  a  smuggler  —  he 
would  trust  Fat  Brown  —  with  the  key  of 
his—" 

Katrina  whispered  it. 

"Portuguese  chest!" 

The  professor  stared. 

"Why,  how  did  you  know  he  said  that?" 

Katrina,  first  white,  then  red,  stammered : 

"I  g-guessed  it,  father." 
[93] 


KA TRIN  A 


'You  did!" 

"  I  mean  I  —  I  mean  it  was  an  Intuition, 
father." 

Wonder  and  pride  contended  in  the  pro- 
fessor's eyes. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  said,  when  he  managed 
to  find  his  voice  again,  "your  mother  was  al- 
ways guessing  things  before  I  told  her.  It's  a 
gift,  I  think.  You're  uncommonly  like  her, 
Katrina,  my  dear." 

Katrina  blushed  and  hung  down  her  head 
—  for  shame. 

Crime  now  was  a  reality  it  had  never  been 
to  her.  With  her  own  guilt  burning  upon  her 
cheeks,  and  lying  like  lead  upon  her  childish 
soul,  Mr.  Larry's  knavery  seemed  far  more 
likely  than  she  had  thought,  and  for  aught  she 
knew,  all  evil-doing  might  be  as  easy  and  as 
unforeseen  as  her  words  had  been.  Her 
father's  code  was  founded  upon  a  maxim  she 
had  heard  him  utter  a  hundred  times:  "To 
all  crimes,  great  and  small,  the  first  step  is  a 
little  white  lie.  Beware,  my  child!"  Mr. 
Larry's  secret  was  never  nearer  to  a  sad  dis- 
closure than  it  was  that  night  when  the  little 
white  liar  kneeled  down  in  prayer. 

[94] 


PARTICEPS    CRIMINIS 

"  Were  I  a  smuggler,  I  would  trust  Fat  Brown 
with  the  key  of  my  Portuguese  chest." 

Mr.  Larry's  words  burned  in  Katrina's 
mind,  igniting  many  an  Intuition  there.  The 
bare  thought  of  him  popping  through  the 
sliding  panel  into  "where  it  leads  to"  and  the 
knowledge  that  even  so  safe  a  refuge  might 
not  conceal  him  from  the  law's  long,  blue- 
sleeved  arm,  had  held  her  bound  to  him, 
though  her  silence  seemed  even  more  wicked 
now  than  his  vague  and  even  doubtful  sin. 
She  tried  to  assure  herself  that  the  thing  was 
nonsense,  but  there  were  smugglers,  she  ascer- 
tained, for  the  papers  said  so,  and  why  were 
there  Customs,  if  not  to  catch  them?  What 
did  he  smuggle  ?  she  asked  herself.  What  do 
smugglers  smuggle?  She  was  not  quite  sure, 
but  she  had  a  notion  —  which  is  a  thing  just 
next  to  an  Intuition  —  that  it  was  Rum.  She 
had  observed  that  the  moment  she  thought 
"Smugglers,"  she  thought  "Rum"  —  rum  in 
kegs,  kegs  lifted  down  from  a  boat  in  the 
offing,  which  sounded  as  dreadful  and  was 
quite  as  mysterious  to  her  fair  young  mind 
as  the  sliding  panel  or  the  Portuguese  chest. 
And  all  this,  she  knew,  would  happen  on  a 

[95] 


KA TRINA 


moonless  night.  (She  had  found,  it  seems,  in 
a  Sunday  school  library,  The  Life  and  Letters 
of  Captain  Kidd.)  Fancy  lifting  down  kegs 
from  a  boat  in  the  offing  —  on  a  pitch-dark 
night ! 

Katrina  fancied  it,  and  was  struck  breath- 
lessly —  intuitively,  in  fact  —  by  what  no  good 
little  girl  should  dream  of  harboring  for  an 
instant:  an  Admiration  that  Mr.  Larry  might 
be,  in  truth,  so  brave  a  man!  But  Katrina, 
remember,  had  taken  that  first,  that  down- 
ward step.  She  was  in  a  fair  way  now  of 
beginning  to  wish  that  Mr.  Larry  might  — 
ah,  well!  She  was  brooding  too  much  on 
those  desolate,  midnight,  rum-strewn  sands, 
poor  child ! 

Once  she  remembered  that  there  was  no 
such  coast  for  miles  about  her  —  but  there 
might  be  an  offing  around  somewhere. 

"Father,"  she  ventured,  "exactly  what  is  an 
offing?" 

"Well,  it's  a  sea-term,"  he  explained.  "It 
means  off-shore;  that  is,  in  the  distance." 

"  I  see :  in  the  distance,"  she  replied,  thought- 
fully. "That's  why  it's  so  convenient,  I  sup- 
pose." 

[96] 


PARTICEPS    CRIMINIS 

"Convenient,  my  dear?  One  scarcely 
speaks  of  distance  as  being  convenient." 

"  For  smugglers  —  and  pirates,"  she  ex- 
plained. 

"  Ah !     In  that  case  —  yes." 

"Are  smugglers,"  she  inquired,  after  a 
moment's  deliberation, "  often  caught,  father  ?  " 

"Always,"  he  replied,  so  promptly  that 
Katrina  jumped. 

"Whether  people  tell  on  them,  or  not?" 
she  asked. 

"Well,"  said  the  professor,  "I  suppose 
these  is  usually  some  person  around  honest 
and  respectable  enough  to  tell  the  officers." 

Katrina  turned  red.  It  was  some  little 
time  before  she  asked  in  a  hesitating  voice  and 
with  many  a  swallow  between  her  words: 

"  But,  father  —  suppose  now  —  you  knew 
a  good  smuggler:  would  you  tell  on  him  ?" 

"  There  is  no  such  thing  as  a  good  smuggler," 
the  professor  answered;  "that  is,  if  you  mean 
a  noble  one,  my  child.  They  are  all  dishonest 
ruffians  and  deserve  to  be  hanged." 

It  was  one  of  those  things  he  liked  to  say 
sometimes,  to  see  her  stare.  She  knew  quite 
well  that  he  stepped  over  ant-hills,  but  this 

[97] 


KA TRIN  A 


thought  of  Mr.  Larry  —  dangling!  —  proved 
too  much,  and  she  shuddered  and  turned 
pale. 

"Yes,  sir,"  the  professor  repeated,  trying 
very  much  to  look  like  an  ogre,  but  beaming 
instead,  with  the  thought  of  how  blood-curd- 
ling his  words  must  seem:  "All  smugglers 
deserve  to  be  hanged,  my  love.  Except  first- 
cabin  ones,"  he  added  slyly,  chuckling  to  him- 
self, for  his  jest  was  lost  on  Katrina's  ears. 
She  was  deep  in  thought,  from  which  she 
roused  herself  to  ask  him  earnestly: 

"Mightn't  a  man  be  tempted  into  smug- 
gling, father  ?  —  and  fall  ?  Wouldn't  you  give 
him  a  chance  to  repent  ?  Suppose  —  suppose 
he  were  a  Presbyterian,  father  ? — or  a  Mason  ?" 

The  professor  laughed.  This  mood  of 
gaiety  was  very  rare  with  him  and  at  another 
time  she  would  have  welcomed  it. 

"  Don't  laugh,"  she  begged.  "  This  is  very 
important,  father." 

"Well,"  he  replied,  "the  case,  as  you  put  it, 
is  rather  difficult,  I  admit.  If  you  had  said 
Unitarian,  I  might  imagine  it,  but  a  —  a 
Presbyterian  smuggler,  Katrina!  My  child 
you  cannot  realize  what  you  have  said." 

[98] 


PARTICEPS    CRIMINIS 

"But  suppose  it,  father." 

"In  the  case  of  a  young  Presbyterian,"  he 
began  — ': 

"How  young?"  she  inquired. 

"Say  under  fifty." 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

"  I  think  I'd  plead  with  him,"  the  professor 
answered;  "I  think  I'd  warn  him  —  and  labor 
with  him  —  before  I'd  hand  him  to  the 
law." 

The  child  seemed  satisfied.  Her  face  was 
brighter  than  before. 

"But  what,"  asked  her  father,  "put  smug- 
gling into  your  head  ?" 

She  dropped  her  eyes. 

"Mr.  Larry's  nonsense?"  he  inquired, 
"about  Fat  Brown?" 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  and  relapsed  gratefully 
into  silence,  for  he  had  saved  her  in  the  nick 
of  time. 

But  had  he  saved  her  ? 

If  one  means  to  tell  a  lie,  and  it  proves  un- 
necessary —  what  then  ?  She  had  not  de- 
cided just  what  she  would  say:  would  that 
make  a  difference?  And  she  could  not  even 
swear  that  she  would  have  told  a  lie,  at  all  — 

[99] 


KATRIN A 


for  she  might  have  changed  her  mind  at  the 
final  moment.     Still  - 

"  Katrina,"  her  father  said,  "  why  —  what's 
the  matter?  what  made  you  jump?" 

"Oh,  how  you  frightened  me!"  she 
said. 

"You  jumped  like  a  rabbit,"  the  professor 
continued,  "and  bless  me!  if  you  haven't 
startled  me  with  your  fidgets.  Why  I  —  I 
can't  think  of  what  I  was  about  to  say.  Oh, 
yes,  I  remember :  I  was  going  to  ask ;  that  is,  I 
was  wondering  what  kind  of  a  place  Mr. 
Larry  has  —  to  live  in,  I  mean.  Newspaper- 
men seldom  have  much  money." 

Katrina  pondered. 

"Well,"  she  said,  hesitating  and  almost 
swallowing  every  word,  "I  —  I  don't  know, 
father,  I'm  sure  —  that  is,  I've  heard  —  that 
he  has  a — a  very  nice  place,  I  believe,  father." 

"  In  a  boarding-house  ?" 

:'Yes,"  was  the  answer,  now  more  decisive 
than  before  —  no  wonder  the  barber  whis- 
pered his  secret  to  the  hole  —  she  felt  better 
already.  "A  very  nice  room,  I  believe,  with 
a  ribbed  ceiling." 

"Beamed,  you  mean." 
[100] 


PARTICEPS    CRIMINIS 

"Beamed,  I  mean.  And  with  a  fireplace, 
father,  and  Persian  rugs,  and  a  —  a  dulci- 
mer." 

"A  what?" 

"A  dulcimer." 

"  Why,  I  didn't  know  McRae  was  musical," 
the  professor  said. 

"Oh,  it's  just  for  ornament,"  Katrina  ex- 
plained. 

"What  a  singular  fellow!"  her  father  re- 
marked. "But  how  did  you  happen  to  learn 
these  things." 

"Why  I- 

It  was  lucky  that  the  professor  did  not  see 
what  Katrina  saw,  there  in  the  room,  all 
white  and  ghostly,  grinning,  and  beckoning 
to  her  with  its  skinny  hands,  till  her  face  grew 
white.  It  wore  a  number  on  its  shroud.  It 
was  No.  3 — if  you're  counting  the  one  which 
she  did  not  tell. 

"Why,"  she  replied,  "Mr.  Larry  told  me 
—  told  me  himself." 

And  the  Thing  vanished,  fire  flashing  from 
its  eyeless  sockets  and  its  jaw-bones  crunching 
as  it  fled. 

"Singular  fellow,"  the  professor  resumed, 
[101] 


KA TRIN  A 


gazing  reflectively  into  the  air.     "  Not  a  living 
soul  to  love  or  fondle." 

"Oh,  yes,"  cried  Katrina,  quite  cheerful 
now.  "He  has  a  dog  —  Ponto;  and  a  great 
big  beautiful  Angora  cat." 

"Indeed!"  said  her  father. 

"And  there  is  a  dear  little  girl  in  the  room 
next  to  him,"  Katrina  went  on.  "He  loves 
her  very  much,  and  calls  her  the  Dink  o' 
Wa-wa  Girl." 

"The  what?" 

"The  Dink  o'  Wa-wa  Girl,  because  she  is 
always  thirsty." 

"Well,"  said  the  professor,  "I?m  glad  to 
hear  it.  I'm  glad  he  has  some  sort  of  ties 
beyond  rum  and  cigarettes." 

Katrina  gasped. 

"Is  he —  is  he  dreadfully  fond  of  rum?" 
she  asked. 

"I'm  afraid  he  is,"  her  father  answered, 
sadly.  "  I  don't  mean,  of  course,  that  he  ever 
gets  drunk." 

"  Then  what  —  what  does  he  do  with  it  - 
with  the  rum,  father?" 

"  Drinks  it,  I  suppose,  but  he  keeps  his  head 
clear.     He  must,  for  his  work." 
[102] 


PARTICEPS    CRIMINIS 

Katrina  gazed  anxiously  at  her  father's  face. 
It  was  quite  calm. 

"What  work?"  she  inquired. 

"Why,  his  writing  —  of  course." 

She  dropped  her  eyes,  and  no  more  was 
said.  But  two  days  afterward  she  received 
this  message  through  the  mail: 

MY  DEAR  KATRINA  :  —  I  have  oiled  the  panel. 

Yours, 
L.  M. 

Katrina  answered  with  a  trembling  hand : 

MY  DEAR  MR.  LARRY:  —  Really  and  truly  I  haven't 
told  any  one  —  only  father  about  your  beautiful  room 
and  the  dulcimer  and  the  little  girl.  Nothing  else.  Oh, 
I  wish  you  wouldn't  do  so  any  more.  Please  go  and 
see  Mr.  Monday.  He  is  our  minister.  He  lives  at 
No.  30  Cunningham  Place.  For  the  sake  of 
Your  Little  Friend, 

KATRINA  LONGFORD  JUNE. 
P.  S.     See  I  Corinthians,  iii.  13. 


[103] 


VII 


A   MODERN   DULCIMER 

ON  the  following  Sabbath  the  congregation 
of  the  Berry  Avenue  Presbyterian  Church  con- 
tained no  listener  more  devout,  more  deeply 
attentive  to  the  long  service,  or  more  eager  to 
extract  its  moral,  than  Katrina  June.  She  sat 
forward,  the  better  to  observe  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Monday's  face,  the  ponderous  gravity  of 
which  was  eloquent  to  her  understanding  and 
aroused  her  hope  for  the  welfare  of  Mr.  Larry's 
soul.  That  Mr.  Monday  had  something  on 
his  mind  there  could  be  no  doubt.  Seated 
quietly  behind  the  pulpit,  immersed  in  thought, 
it  was  evident  to  the  child  that  more  than  a 
sermon  troubled  him,  and  her  heart  went  out 
to  him  in  sympathy  for  the  sad  perplexity  in 
his  brooding  eyes.  Now  and  again  they  flashed 
out,  sweeping  the  pews  as  if  in  quest  of  some 
absent  face;  then  fell  again  into  that  gloomy 
revery,  which  Katrina  watched  with  a  growing 
confidence  that  she  had  probed  its  depths. 
She  herself  sent  furtive,  half-expectant  glances 
[104] 


A    MODERN    DULCIMER 

toward  the  streams  of  worshipers  entering 
the  doors,  but  Mr.  Larry  was  not  among  them. 
If  doubt  assailed  her  then,  if  she  began  to 
fear  that  he  had  turned  deafly  from  her  counsel 
and  entreaty,  and  that  I  Corinthians,  iii.  13, 
had  failed  to  do  its  perfect  work,  the  sight  of 
Mr.  Monday  rising  in  the  pulpit,  tossing  his 
straight  black  locks  from  his  high  forehead  as 
he  paused  impressively  before  his  text,  and 
the  pathetic  tones  of  his  Sabbath  voice  as  he 
gave  it  out,  paused  —  read  it  again,  and  yet 
again,  choosing  her  face  (or  so  it  seemed  to 
her)  out  of  the  hundred  there,  to  fix  with  his 
grieved  and  careworn  eyes  —  all  this  re- 
newed her  hope  that  somewhere,  that  golden 
Lord's  day  morning,  there  rose  to  Heaven, 
afar  from  offings  and  their  boats  and  kegs, 
the  incense  of  a  contrite  heart. 

Yet  the  sermon  was  a  disillusionment. 
It  was  not  at  all  what  it  should  have  been 
under  the  circumstances.  It  pertained  gen- 
erally to  the  blessedness  of  giving,  and 
specifically  to  the  wheezy  decrepitude  of  the 
pipe-organ,  all  undeniable  enough,  but  of  what 
import  compared  to  an  immortal  soul  ?  Here 
was  no  salty  flavor  of  the  sea;  neither  any  hint 
[105] 


KA TRIN  A 


of  the  sheepfold  and  its  ninety  and  nine,  not 
even  a  smattering  of  rejoicing  over  the  one 
sinner  that  repenteth — nor  indeed  anything  for 
which  Katrina  had  vaguely  but  fondly  hoped. 
Her  heart  sank  as  the  discourse  ended.  Doubt- 
less it  had  been  a  good  one  in  its  way,  and  the 
cause  was  needy,  but  to  Katrina's  mind  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Monday's  words,  fervent  though 
they  were,  had  not  been  worthy  of  his  tragic 
face. 

Moreover,  it  seemed  quite  certain  now  that 
Mr.  Larry  had  not  confessed;  that  he  had  not 
sought  comfort;  that  he  had  ignored,  or 
spurned,  her  message  with  the  scriptural  warn- 
ing which  she  had  found  by  accident  in  quest 
of  solace  for  her  own  transgressions,  still 
heavy  on  her  soul.  Katrina,  rising  for  the 
benediction,  and  joining  afterward  her  class- 
mates in  the  assembling  Sunday  school,  wore 
a  troubled  countenance,  and  for  the  first  time 
in  their  recollection,  stumbled  in  the  golden 
text. 

The  class,  a  row  of  little  maids  of  Katrina's 

age,  all  clean  and  starched,  sat  in  one  pew, 

while  the  teacher,  Mrs.  Borrow,  sat  in  another, 

half  turned  about  to  them  —  a  gentle  woman 

[106] 


A    MODERN    DULCIMER 

with  brown  hair  turning  gray  and  parted 
evenly  (divided  equally  to  a  strand,  Katrina 
thought)  under  a  bonnet  becoming  to  her 
age  and  over  a  brow  as  fair  and  mild  as  any 
child's  in  the  line  before  her.  Her  eyes  beamed 
behind  gold-bowed  glasses,  she  spoke  softly, 
and  the  rustling  of  her  perfect  lips  as  she  led 
the  lesson,  the  satin  smoothness  of  her  cheeks, 
her  shell-like  ears,  the  snowy  niching  at  her 
throat,  the  sheen  and  whisper  of  her  black 
silk  gown,  and  the  seemly  elegance  of  her 
gloved  hands  holding  the  leaflet  or  the  gilt- 
edged  book  —  all  these  far  more  than  any 
words  she  uttered,  far  more  than  any  text,  or 
parable,  or  sacred  story,  bore  home  inevitably 
to  the  little  Katrina's  mind  the  truth  and 
beauty  of  Christian  holiness.  Watching  those 
moving  lips  and  marveling  at  the  silvery 
sibilance  which  softened,  subdued  and  chas- 
tened speech  till  even  the  Hebrew  genealogies 
had  something  lovely  in  their  discordances, 
Katrina  did  not  mind  the  whistling.  Or  rather, 
Mrs.  Borrow  did  not  whistle,  she  maintained 
stoutly :  it  was  the  word's  fault,  for  having  S's. 
Never  before  had  Mrs.  Borrow  seemed  so 
perfect  as  she  did  to-day  to  the  little  fib-teller. 
[107] 


KA TRIN  A 

Every  verse  of  the  scripture  lesson  pointed  a 
reproachful  finger  at  her  guilty  heart.  She 
believed  that  her  failure  in  the  golden  text 
was  a  humiliation  added  unto  her  for  her  great 
unworthiness. 

In  the  holy  calm  of  the  Sabbath  evening  a 
child  passed  swiftly  with  flushed  face  and 
beating  heart  into  a  dingy,  old-fashioned  street, 
awed  by  the  settled  melancholy  of  its  rows  of 
discolored,  weather-beaten  houses,  and  dis- 
trustful of  every  sound  in  a  neighborhood 
which  she  had  never  seen  before.  She  was 
seeking  for  a  number,  but  when  she  found  it, 
and  after  passing  it  twice  at  least  in  her  con- 
fusion, she  paused,  breathless,  and  turned  as 
if  to  flee  —  only  to  turn  again,  and  finally 
run  to  the  forbidding  door.  She  pulled  the 
bell. 

"Is  Mr.  Larry  —  in?"  she  asked  huskily. 

"Mr.  McRae,  you  mean?" 

"Yeth." 

"He  won't  be  in  for  an  hour  yet,  and  maybe 
not  then,"  replied  the  woman  at  the  door. 
"What  d'you  want?  D'you  want  to  leave  a 
message?" 

[108] 


A    MODERN    DULCIMER 

"N-no,"  said  Katrina.  "That  is  —  no, 
thank  you.  I  guess  I'll  wait." 

"Wait!"  cried  the  woman.  "You  might 
wait  till  midnight.  Humph!  I  should  think 
you  might.  Never  can  tell  when  he'll  get 
home.  But  you  can  come  in  if  you  want  to." 

Katrina  shrank  back.  This  was  not  a 
cheerful  woman,  nor  a  tidy  one.  Her  hair 
struggled  from  its  combs,  and  there  was  a 
harried  look  in  her  glum  and  greasy  features 
and  a  note  of  petulance  in  her  discordant 
voice. 

"Well,  ain't  you  coming?" 

Katrina  obeyed  —  instantly!  She  could 
never  account  for  it.  She  had  made  up  her 
mind  not  to  go  in,  when,  suddenly,  the  woman 
spoke,  and  before  she  was  aware  —  without 
having  taken  a  single  step  that  she  could  ever 
remember !  —  there  she  was  in  the  gloom  of  an 
enormous  hall  (as  she  told  Betty  Wendell 
afterward)  and  at  the  foot  of  the  narrowest, 
steepest,  creepiest  stairs  that  you  ever  saw! 
She  had  time  to  notice  them  -  -  just  time  - 
when  the  door  went  Bang!  shutting  out  the 
daylight  —  and  Katrina  jumped. 

She  had  been  taken  suddenly! 
[109] 


KA TRIN  A 


By  an  Intuition! 

She  knew  it  by  the  way  her  heart  .  .  . 
why,  this  woman,  don't  you  see? — no  wonder! 
—  she  was  a  smuggleress,  of  course ! 

"The  parlor's  taken,"  croaked  the  hag. 
"All  our  rooms  are.  You  can  sit  down  in 


mine." 


"Oh,  no,  no,  no!  No  thank  you,"  Katrina 
cried,  much  louder  than  the  distance  warranted 
"I'd  rather  —  oh,  if  you  don't  mind  —  wait 
in  Mr.  Larry's,  please;  in  Mr.  Larry's  apart- 
ment." 

The  woman  eyed  her  in  some  astonishment. 

"Well,  you  needn't  get  so  excited  about  it. 
So  you'd  rather  wait  in  Mr.  Larry's  room  ?" 

"Oh,  yes  if  you  please.     Please." 

"Are  you  a  relative  of  Mr.  Larry's  ?" 

"No,  I'm  —  just  a  friend." 

The  smuggleress  eyed  her  from  head  to 
foot. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "I  guess  you  can  go  up, 
if  you  want  to.  It's  the  first  door  to  the  right 
and  it's  never  locked.  But  you'll  find  it  dull 
up  there.  My  room's  better." 

"Oh,  /  shan't  mind,"  Katrina  cried,  de- 
lightedly.    "I'll  play  with  the  kitty." 
[110] 


A    MODERN    DULCIMER 

She  paused  with  her  foot  upon  the  dreadful 
stair. 

"The  dog  won't  bite,  will  he?"  she  asked. 

The  woman  stared. 

"There  ain't  any  dog  up  there." 

"Oh,  then  I'm  not  afraid,"  Katrina  an- 
swered. Ponto  was  out,  doubtless,  with  his 
master,  so  she  ran  lightly  up  the  stairs,  wonder- 
ing a  little  at  not  hearing  the  voice  of  the  Dink 
o'  Wa-wa  Girl.  Nor  was  there  a  smell  of  liquor; 
the  air  was  musty,  but  quite  innocent  of  the 
fumes  of  rum. 

At  the  top  she  paused. 

"First  to  the  right,"  came  a  voice  from  be- 
low, and  Katrina  started. 

"Oh,  yes!"  she  said,  taking  another  step. 
Captain  Kidd's  pistol,  she  reflected,  would 
scarcely  go  off  if  she  walked  softly  —  so  as 
not  to  jiggle  the  Portuguese  chest. 

"To  the  right,  I  said!" 

"Oh,  yes,  thank  you,"  Katrina  answered, 
and  breathing  deeply,  she  laid  her  little  gloved 
trembling  hand  upon  the  smuggler's  door. 

She  opened  it  —  but  shut  it  hastily,  and  be- 
fore she  knew  it,  she  was  on  the  stairs  again. 

"Oh!"  she  said,  "I  beg  your  pardon." 

' 


KA TRINA 


"What's  the  matter  now?"  asked  the  crone 
below. 

"I  g-got  the  wrong  door,"  Katrina  stam- 
mered. She  was  all  a-tremble. 

"Why,  no  you  didn't.  What  are  you  talk- 
ing about?" 

"  But  I  wanted  Mr.  Larry's  —  Mr.  McRae's 
apartment,"  said  the  little  girl. 

"  That  was  Mr.  McRae's  —  apartment,  as 
you  call  it.  First  to  the  right,  I  told  you, 
didn't  I?" 

"Why  no!"  cried  Katrina.     "It  can't  be!" 

"Well  it  is,  I  tell  you,"  was  the  sharp  re- 
joinder. "I  ought  to  know,  I  guess;  I'm 
running  this  here  house." 

"But  that,"  said  Katrina,  "was  such  a 
stuffy  little  place!" 

"  Stuffy  little  place!"  returned  Mrs.  Withers, 
stepping  forward  menacingly.  "Stuffy  little 
place!  What  do  you  mean  by  a  stuffy  little 
place?  I'll  have  you  to  know  I  don't  have 
stuffy  little  places  in  my  house,  young  lady. 
I'd  like  to  catch  Lawrence  McRae  calling  that 
a  stuffy  little  place!  He  don't  complain.  I 
don't  see  why  you  should." 

Katrina  gasped. 

[112] 


A    MODERN    DULCIMER 

"But  where's  the  fireplace?" 

"Fireplace!" 

"And  the  dulcimer?" 

"The  what?" 

"The  dulcimer?  And  the  Angora  cat?" 
Katrina  cried. 

Mrs.  Withers  stared. 

"  The  dulc  —  say :  you're  a  funny  little  girl. 
Where'd  you  come  from?  We've  got  a  tom- 
cat in  the  back  yard,  but  that  ain't  saying  it's 
a  Angora,  or  a  Dulcimer  either.  And  if  you 
must  know,  it's  plain  maltee  and  yellar, 
mixed." 

Katrina  was  clinging  to  the  rail. 

"  Hasn't  Mr.  Larry  any  cat  ?  —  or  dog  ?  — 
or  anything?" 

Mrs.  Withers  grinned. 

"  Oh,  g'wan ! "  she  said.  "  No !  He's  been 
stringin'  you." 

"Been  what?"  Katrina  asked. 

"He's  been  jollying  you." 

Katrina  stared. 

"Then  it  isn't  true?"  she  asked,  her  voice 
trembling. 

"  Well,"  Mrs.  Withers  replied, "  this  here  dul- 
cimer cat  business  ain't  true,  for  one  thing." 
[113] 


KA TRIN  A 


"What  else  has  he  been  giving  you  ?" 

Katrina  hesitated. 

"Well,  /  thought,"  she  explained,  "that  Mr. 
Larry  had  a  large  room,  with  a  fireplace,  and 
rugs,  and  a  dog,  and  a  cat.  He  said  he  had  a 
lovely  room." 

"Did  he!"  cried  the  landlady.  "Did  he 
say  that?" 

"  Why  yes;  he  said  it  had  a  beautiful  ceiling." 

"And  well  he  might,"  Mrs.  Withers  re- 
plied proudly.  "He  likes  it,  does  he?  he 
ought  to:  it  cost  ten  cents  a  roll.  But  this 
here  fireplace  business  - 

She  shook  her  head,  and  regarded  Katrina 
with  much  compassion. 

"Is  there  a  little  girl  here?"  Katrina  asked 
suddenly,  "  called  the  Dink  o'  Wa-wa  girl  ?" 

Mrs.  Withers  gasped. 

"The  Dink  o'  —  did  he  tell  you  that  ?" 

Katrina  nodded,  and  the  landlady  burst  into 
a  paroxysm  of  delight. 

"  Well,  I'll  be  —  what  did  you  say  he  called 
her?" 

"The  Dink  o'  Wa-wa  girl,"  Katrina  replied, 
her  face  flushing.  She  began  to  fear  that  she 
had  told  too  much. 

[114] 


A    MODERN    DULCIMER 

"Well,  what  d'you  think  of  that?"  Mrs. 
Withers  cried.  "The  Dinky- what  did  he  call 
her?" 

"  The  Dink  o'  Wa-wagirl,  "Katrina  repeated. 

"And  I  never  have  children  in  my  house," 
said  Mrs.  Withers.  "He  knows  that.  It 
doesn't  pay;  they  spoil  the  wall-paper.  Now 
he  knows  that." 

She  gazed  curiously  at  Katrina. 

"Well,  I  swan.  I  never  heard  anything  like 
it.  And  you  a  friend  of  his!  Well,  that's 
the  reason,  I  suppose.  What  did  you  say  your 
name  was?" 

"  Katrina  —  Katrina  June." 

"Mine's  Mrs.  Withers.  You've  heard  him 
speak  of  me,  I  guess.  Come,  now,  what's  he 
been  a-telling  you  about  me?" 

"Nothing,"  Katrina  answered,  descending 
another  step  or  two.  "He  never  even  men- 
tions you  —  honestly.  And  I  wish,  Mrs. 
Withers,  if  you  don't  mind,  that  you  wouldn't 
tell  him  that  I've  been  here." 

"I  see.  You  don't  want  to  let  on  that  you 
know  he's  been  a-stringin'  you  —  eh?" 

"No,"     said     Katrina.     "And     oh,     Mrs. 
Withers,  I'm  so,  so  glad!" 
[115] 


KA TRIN  A 


"Glad  he's  been  a-stringin'  you!" 

"  Oh,  it's  a  great  relief,  Mrs.  Withers." 

"  Well,  now,  that's  singular.  You  say  you're 
glad  he's  been  a  — " 

'Oh,  yes,  Mrs.  Withers." 

'You're  glad,  but  you  don't  want  him  to 
know  you're  glad.  Is  that  it  ?" 

"That's  it,  Mrs.  Withers." 

"Well,  well,"  the  landlady  said,  "that's  odd 
now.  You're  a  very  funny  little  girl.  You're 
glad  he's  — " 

"Well,  you  see,  Mrs.  Withers,  it's  this  way: 
and  I  don't  mind  telling  you  —  he's  been  here 
so  long,  and  you're  almost  a  mother  to  him 
now,  I  suppose." 

"Mother  to  him!  Good  gracious,  how  old 
do  you  think  I  am  ?  He's  no  spring  chicken ! " 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  mean  that,"  Katrina  hastened 
to  explain.  "  I  meant  that  you  kind  of  looked 
alter  him." 

'a'lJLshould  say  I  did,"  was  the  reply.     "He 
leaves  his  things  lying  around  so." 

"And  so,"  said  Katrina,  "I  can  tell  you, 
Mrs.  Withers,  for  I  know  you  won't  tell." 

"Tell!"    was   the   prompt    assurance.     "I 
should  think  not.     No  one  can  ever  accuse 
[116] 


A    MODERN    DULCIMER 

Sarah  Withers  of  telling  anything,  if  she's  told 
not  to." 

"Well,  you  see,  Mrs.  Withers.    /  thought 

» 

Katrina  paused. 

"I  thought  he  was  something  dreadful." 

"Dreadful!"  repeated  the  landlady.  "In 
my  house!" 

"Yes,"  said  Katrina,  "I  thought  he  was  a 
smuggler." 

"A  smuggler!" 

For  a  moment  Mrs.  Withers  stood,  heaving 
with  the  approaching  outburst,  which  broke 
so  suddenly  and  with  such  a  shower  and 
cackling  that  Katrina  retreated  a  step  higher 
up  the  stairs.  It  soon  passed  though,  and 
the  landlady,  wiping  her  eyes,  recovered  what 
voice  was  left  to  her. 

"Did  Retell  you  that?" 

Katrina  nodded. 

"That  is,"  she  replied  hastily,  "he  didn't 
just  say  so,  but  he  hinted  at  it." 

"That  man!  That  man!"  Mrs.  Withers 
marveled.  "And  you  thought  —  oh  I  see! 
That's  why  you're  so  glad  he's  been  a-stringin' 
you?" 

[117] 


KA TRIN  A 


"Of  course,"  said  Katrina. 

"Naturally!"  cried  Mrs.  Withers. 

"Naturally,"  echoed  Katrina. 

Mrs.  Withers  shook  her  head. 

"Well,  well,  well,  well!" 

"Now  you  won't  say  a  word,  Mrs. 
Withers?" 

"  Not  a  word !  Not  a  syllable.  Not  a  living 
syllable  will  I  breathe,  I  promise  you.  Dear 
me!  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing!" 

"Then  I'll  say  good  evening,  Mrs.  Withers." 

"Good-by,  poor  dear;  and  don't  you  fret. 
You  just  be  easy.  He'll  never  even  dream  of 
it." 

Katrina  flew  down  the  steps  like  a  bird  un- 
caged.    She  jumped;  she  skipped;  she  ran - 
singing  to  herself,  over  and  over: 

Goosey — goosey  ga — ander, 
Mr.  Larry 's  not  a  smu — uglerl 
Goosey — goosey — gander! 
Mr.  Larry's — not — a — smuggler! 

—  all  the  way  home. 

There  remains  something  to  be  told.     That 
night  the  professor  —  he  could  not  remember 
[118] 


A    MODERN    DULCIMER 

when  his  little  daughter  had  been  so  blithe, 
so  tender,  so  brimming  over  —  the  professor, 
seated  in  his  reading  chair,  was  astounded  at 
the  things  he  heard.  She  told  him  the  awful 
secret  that  was  neither  awful  nor  a  secret,  after 
all;  she  showed  him  Mr.  Larry's  letter,  which 
she  had  never  had  the  heart  to  burn;  and  she 
told  him  what  Mrs.  Withers  said  —  keeping 
for  the  very  last  that  final  remnant  on  her  con- 
science: 

"So,  you  see,  I  was  not  like  mother,  when 
I  said  I  guessed." 

"You  are  more  than  ever  like  your  mother," 
he  assured  her  fondly,  stroking  her  hair.  "  She 
never  liked  fibs,  either  —  not  even  Christmas 
ones." 

That  was  all  he  said. 

"Do  you  think,"  he  asked,  "that  Mrs. 
Withers  will  go  and  tell  ?" 

"Oh,  no,  father!     She  never  does." 

"So?" 

"  Why,  she  said  as  much.  And  you  mustn't 
tell,  father  —  and  I  won't  —  and  we'll  just 
let  him  think  I  think  he's  a  smuggler." 

"We  won't  say  a  word,"  the  professor  an- 
swered.    "We'll  just  look  scandalized." 
[119] 


KA TRINA 


"Oh,  you  mustn't  do  that!"  Katrina  warned 
him.  "That  would  never  do.  You're  not 
supposed  to  know,  you  know.  And  the  trouble 
is,"  she  added,  frowning,  "/  never  see  him." 

"Then  how  can  we  punish  him?"  the  pro- 
fessor asked. 

"I  know!"  cried  Katrina,  "I'll  send  him 
tracts!" 

"The  very  thing!"  her  father  answered  — 
and  the  thing  was  done. 

But  two  days  afterward  a  covered  some- 
thing-or-other  arrived  by  messenger  for  the 
Junes. 

"It's  a  bird-cage,  father,  I  do  believe!" 

It  was  a  bird-cage. 

"And  there's  something  in  it!  Alive!  A 
bird,  father!" 

It  was  not  a  bird ;  but  a  card  attached  settled 
all  doubts  of  its  identity: 

A  Dulcimer  Tom- Cat 
from  Mr.  Larry 

to  Katrina  June. 


[120] 


VIII 

THE   OPTIMIST 

IF  Mr.  Larry's  editorial  account  of  the  pro- 
fessor's history  had  failed  to  achieve  any 
marked  result  in  the  book's  behalf,  it  had 
drawn  to  him  in  a  large  measure  the  author's 
gratitude,  and  it  proved  the  basis  of  a  growing 
friendliness  between  the  men.  Katrina  never 
saw  Mr.  Larry,  who,  for  some  unaccountable 
reason,  and  on  one  pretext  or  another,  con- 
tinued to  decline  all  invitations  to  Abercrombie 
Street,  but  Professor  June  dropped  in  at  the 
Herald  office  now  and  then  to  walk  homeward 
in  the  late  afternoon  with  the  one  man  of  all 
the  world  who  had  caught  the  spirit  of  his 
magnum  opus,  and  who,  with  that  gentle  art 
of  interviewing  at  his  tongue's  end,  managed 
to  extract  from  the  guileless  dreamer  far  more 
than  he  ever  realized,  leaving  him  conscious 
only  of  having  found  a  humorously  sympa- 
thetic friend.  It  troubled  him  a  little  to  note 
so  frequently  a  tone  of  what  he  called  pessi- 
mism in  Mr.  Larry's  voice.  The  human  race 
[121] 


KA TRIN  A 


was  divided  into  two  classes,  in  the  professor's 
mind  —  pessimists  and  optimists  —  and  one 
or  the  other  a  man  must  be;  there  could  be  no 
mingling  of  discordant  elements.  As  for 
himself  he  was  an  optimist. 

"If  a  man  obeys  the  Golden  Rule,"  he  was 
wont  to  say,  "he  will  get  his  deserts,  in 
time." 

"Ah,  yes,"  Mr.  Larry  replied,  puffing  re- 
flectively at  his  cigarette.  "  In  time,  perhaps, 
but  not  necessarily  A.  D." 

The  professor  smiled. 

"Which  is  to  say,"  he  began,  "that  you  are 
in  one  of  your  — " 

"Which  is  only  to  say,"  Mr.  Larry  inter- 
posed mildly,  "that  if  a  man  ever  needs  faith 
in  a  world  to  come,  it  is  when  he  begins  to 
model  his  life  on  the  Golden  Rule;  which, 
again,  is  only  another  way  of  saying  that  if  a 
man  keeps  the  Golden  Rule  with  a  sneaking 
idea  that  it  will  win  him  an  earthly  crown,  he 
is  in  grave  danger  of  perplexity  in  his  old  age." 

The  professor  was  silent. 

"And  doesn't  it  strike  you,"  Mr.  Larry  in- 
quired, "that  the  hope  of  earthly  reward  is 
a  mighty  low  kind  of  reason  for  keeping  the 
[122] 


THE    OPT  IM  IS  T 


Golden  Rule,  or  the  Ten  Commandments,  or 
any  other  moral  law?" 

"I  am  an  optimist,"  the  professor  replied. 
"I  always  look  on  the  bright  side  of  things. 
Every  cloud,  you  know,  has  — 

"I  know,  professor.     I  know  that  cloud." 

"The  Man  of  Nazareth,"  Professor  June 
began  — 

"Was  scarcely  what  you  call  an  optimist," 
the  editor  interposed,  "as  far  as  this  world  is 
concerned.  He  knew  it  for  a  battle-ground, 
and  life  for  an  ordeal ;  and  in  His  greater  agony 
and  martyrdom  He  set  men  an  example  of  how 
they  should  endure  their  lesser  ones." 

"Ah,  yes,  but  the  world  is  a  beautiful 
world,"  the  professor  declared. 

"Naturally  beautiful,"  said  Mr.  Larry. 
"The  skies  are  as  blue  over  sinners  as  over 
saints.  The  stars  shine  as  serenely  upon 
murder  as  upon  lover's  trysts." 

"But  life  is  beautiful  too,"  the  professor 
argued. 

"Never  so  beautiful,"  Mr.  Larry  answered, 
"as  in  the  endurance  of  its  tragedy." 

"But  has  it  no  joys  for  you?"  the  professor 
asked.  "No  gaiety?" 

[123] 


KA TRINA 


"Gaiety?  yes,"  said  Mr.  Larry.  "I  can 
jig  with  you  upon  occasion." 

He  smiled  agreeably  at  his  companion,  add- 
ing, "But  I  fancy,  professor,  that  the  truest 
joy  a  man  can  know  is  in  the  knowledge  that 
he  has  fought  well;  that  he  has  turned,  per- 
haps, outward  defeat  into  inward  victory;  that 
he  has  kept  God's  rule  golden  in  spite  of  the 
devil  in  himself  and  in  other  men." 

"I  have  more  confidence  in  my  fellows," 
replied  the  optimist.  "  I  will  stake  my  life  on 
the  Golden  Rule." 

Mr.  Larry  smiled. 

"Your  next  life,  professor,  not  this  one. 
Your  rule,  my  friend,  will  win  you  heaven,  but 
not  the  earth." 

The  professor  shook  his  head. 

"You  are  a  pessimist,"  he  said  sadly. 

"  Pessimist  ?  "  Mr.  Larry  inquired.  "  What's 
a  pessimist  ?  There  is  joy  and  sorrow  in  the 
world,  that's  all  I  know;  and  there  seems  some 
reason  for  it  —  some  good  reason,  I  daresay. 
And  good  and  evil  have  contended  in  every 
human  soul,  saint  and  sinner,  since  they  ribbed 
Adam.  Life's  not  a  garden  party.  Eden  was 
locked  up  long  ago." 

[124] 


THE    OPTIMIST 


The  professor's  head  continued  to  protest. 
Calmly  confident  of  his  own  view  point,  and 
like  many  another  mild-mannered  reasoner 
far  less  open  to  conviction  than  men  more 
turbulent  in  debate,  the  professor  continued 
to  assert  his  smiling  generalities  on  the  text 
that  the  world  was  better  than  it  had  ever  been; 
continued  to  confide  his  visions  and  to  paint 
millenniums,  and  if  discountenanced,  momen- 
tarily, by  Mr.  Larry's  humorous  scorn,  con- 
soled himself  with  the  reflection  that  it  was 
the  outburst  of  a  curious  and  fervent  nature 
and  in  all  probability,  but  half-assumed  for 
the  humor's  sake.  Being  an  optimist  he  could 
not  consistently  admit  that  other  men  believed 
more  than  half  they  uttered. 

"No,"  the  little  man  would  say,  "you  are 
not  a  pessimist,  at  heart,  McRae.  You  are 
an  optimist  like  myself,  though  you  won't 
admit  it."  Then  Mr.  Larry  would  laugh 
softly  and  change  the  subject,  preferably  to 
Katrina,  whose  sayings  and  doings  he  heard 
always  with  as  avowed  an  optimism  as  the 
professor's  own. 

"  It  only  goes  to  prove,"  the  professor  would 
remark  afterward  to  Katrina,  recalling  for  her 
[125] 


KA T  RIN  A 


benefit  the  harmless  arguments  of  the  after- 
noon, "that  barks  and  bites  are  two  different 
matters,  and  that  you  can't  judge  a  man  by 
what  he  says.  Why,  just  to  show  you,"  he 
cited  to  her,  on  one  occasion,  "there  was  that 
question  of  the  water  board  scandal.  I  didn't 
mention  it  in  the  history,  and  McRae  dis- 
approved. 

"'Come  now,'  I  said,  'you  don't  mean  to 
say  that  you  think  the  charge  was  true?  Do 
you  think  John  Knox  Watkins  would  steal?9 

"'Steal!'  he  cried.  'He  would  have  stolen 
the  gas-pipe  out  of  a  vacant  house?' 

"'But  my  dear  fellow,'  I  pointed  out, 
'  Watkins  was  a  deacon  in  the  - 

" '  Exactly,'  he  replied.  '  So  much  the  worse 
for  his  immortal  soul.  Why  June,'  said  he, 
'they  teach  book-keeping  up  at  your  college  on 
the  hill.  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you 
think  the  business  of  the  world  is  carried  on 
in  the  honest,  accurate,  Complete  Arithmetic, 
seventh-decimal  way  you  teach  your  boys  to 
keep  their  books  in  ?  Do  you  think  the  city's 
books  were  kept  that  way  when  Watkins  was 
head  of  the  water  board  and  five  hundred 
thousand  dollars  of  the  public  funds  - 
[126] 


THE    OPTIMIST 


"And  on  he  went,  declaring  that  if  our  civic 
virtue  didn't  need  reforming,  what  had  I 
written  my  history  for?  And  if  men  were 
honest  enough  already,  what  need  was  there 
for  my  scheme  to  teach  better  citizenship  in 
the  schools? 

"Well  —  I  laughed  and  soothed  him:  I  told 
him  that  I  hated  scoundrels  as  much  as  he  did, 
but  'Mac,'  said  I,  'I  believe  most  men  are 
honest  —  mean  to  be,  that  is,  —  and  if  they 
are  not,  I  think  it  is  because  they  see  things 
from  a  wrong  point  of  view,  as  a  rule,  and 
not  because  they  are  rogues  intentionally.' 

"  Well,  sir,  you  should  have  seen  him  throw 
up  his  hands  at  that! 

"June,'  said  he,  'there  is  no  use  in  talking 
of  the  world  to  a  man  who  walks  through  it 
with  his  eyes  on  heaven  and  his  nose  buried 
in  a  bunch  of  garden-flowers.  "What  do  you 
see?"  you  ask  him.  "See?  Stars,  my  dear 
fellow — stars!  I  see  a  million  stars ! "  "And 
what  do  you  smell?"  "Smell?  (Sniff.  Sniff.) 
T>e-licious!  I  smell  a  rose!" 

The  professor  shook  with  merriment. 

"  Laugh  ?"  he  cried,  turning  to  Katrina  with 
the  tears  rolling  down  his  cheeks,  "I  thought 
[127J 


KA TRIN  A 


I  should  split.     Imagine  him  piping  up  in  a 
little  high  squeaking  voice: 

"'Smell?  (Sniff.  Sniff.)  De-licious!  I 
smell  a  rose!" 

Katrina  smiled. 

"Oh,  father,  isn't  he  funny?" 

"He's  a  droll  fellow,  and  no  mistake,"  the 
professor  answered.  "A  droll  fellow,  Mac  is. 
'Why,  June,'  said  he,  'Watkins  ought  to 
have  been  hung.  No,  hanging  would  have 
been  too  good  for  that  thief.  He  ought  to 
have  been  roasted  on  a  gridiron.  Put  that  in 
your  history:  tell  your  boys  that  every  city 
should  have  its  gridiron  to  roast  its  traitors  on.' 

"But  I  only  laughed.  I  told  him  that  it 
was  my  firm  belief  that  no  man  was  ever  so 
unregenerate  that  he  couldn't  be  reached  by 
milder  measures.  You  should  have  heard 
him  then! 

' '  Fiddlesticks !    Fear  of  the  devil,  not  love 
of  the  Lord,  was  sufficient  to  keep  men's  hands 
out  of  other  men's  pockets.     What  a  keen, 
discriminating  chronicler  I  would  make,'  he 
said,  '  if  I  only  would  tackle  the  life  of  Nero  - 
or    Catherine    de    Medici  —  or    some    other 
gentle  soul  gone  wrong  I ' ' 
[128] 


THE    OPTIMIST 


The  professor  chuckled. 

"  Fancy,  Katrina !  Old  Nero  — '  gentle  soul 
gone  wrong!" 

"Now  another  man,"  the  professor  con- 
tinued, "might  have  been  offended,  might 
have  thought  him  quarrelsome,  but  —  bless 
your  soul!  —  I  knew  Mac's  heart.  I  knew 
that  when  he'd  fired  off  his  cartridges,  and  the 
smoke  had  cleared,  he'd  come  around;  so  I 
only  laughed. 

"'My  dear  McRae,'  I  said,  'I  have  given 
up  thinking  evil  of  my  fellow-men/ 

"'Good  Lord!'  he  cried.  'When  did  you 
ever  think  evil  of  your  fellow-men  ? ' 

"'Oh,  I  have,'  I  said.  'I  used  to,  Mac, 
but  it  made  me  miserable,  and  it  did  no  good; 
so  I  gave  it  up/ 

"'June,'  said  he,  and  the  weather  was 
clearing  I  knew,  by  the  way  he  said  it : '  June, 
you're  the  damndest,  cheeriest  soul  I  ever 
knew!'" 

"Father!" 

"Well,  he  did;  he  did,  I  tell  you.  I'm  only 
telling  you  what  he  said.  'June,'  said  he, 
'You're  the  damndest,  cheeriest  — " 

"Why,  father!" 

[129] 


KA TRIN  A 


The  professor  was  shaking  with  delight. 

"  That's  what  he  said.  I'm  only  telling  you. 
Yes,  sir;  he  said  I  was  the  - 

"Father!"  cried  the  little  girl  peremptorily, 
and  the  professor  paused,  and  wiped  his  eyes. 

"I  knew  he'd  come  around,"  he  said,  fold- 
ing his  hands  about  one  knee,  and  gazing 
dreamily  into  the  fire.  "He  wouldn't  hurt  a 
fly,  Mac  wouldn't.  Why,  I  explained  to  him; 
explained  the  whole  Watkins  matter;  ex- 
plained it  quietly,  without  a  word  of  prejudice 
either  way;  told  him  the  stoiy  of  Watkins's 
life,  and  the  good  he'd  done  —  the  hospital 
he  built,  the  college  he  endowed,  the  poor  he 
helped,  and  the  Sunday  school  that  he  led 
for  years.  And  now,'  said  I,  *  just  balance  all 
that,  Mac,  coolly  and  fairly,  against  the  blind, 
unthinking  anger  of  the  time,  and  the  long 
trial,  and  the  jury's  disagreement,  and  all  those 
public  events  that  prejudiced  you  against  that 
unconvicted  —  mind  you,  Mac  —  that  uncon- 
victed  man ! ' 

"Still  he  was  stubborn.  He  didn't  say 
much,  but  he  muttered  something  about  un- 
convicted rogues  would  fill  all  the  jails  in 
Christendom  seven  times  over.  But  I  only 
[130] 


THE    OPTIMIST 


smiled.  I  knew  his  reason  would  return  in 
time. 

"'Mac,'  said  I,  'I  know  more  of  Watkins 
than  you  think.  He  was  a  distant  cousin  of 
my  wife.' 

"'Mac  started  up.  'What's  that?'  he 
asked;  so  I  repeated  it.  'Yes,  sir:  he  was  a 
distant  cousin  of  my  wife.  She  knew  the 
story,  and  she  knew  the  man  —  and  a  kinder 
parent  you  never  heard  of.  But  I  said  to  her 
frankly:  "My  dear  Katrina,  we  are  writing 
a  history  of  the  town.  What  must  hurt,  must 
hurt,  even  if  it  strikes  our  kith  and  kin."  Well, 
she  agreed  with  me.  She  was  always  sensible, 
Katrina  was,  and  she  was  heart  and  soul  with 
me  in  that  blessed  history :  took  the  old  files,'  I 
told  him,  'and  the  city  records,  and  wrote 
down  notes,  thousands  of  them  —  dated  them 
—  grouped  them  in  years  —  why,  I  have  a 
drawer  full.'  I  told  Mac  that,  and  how 
when  I  spoke  to  her,  she  said  'yes,  you  are 
right  William ;  we  must  do  our  duty  —  but  if 
I  can  prove  to  you  that  Cousin  John  did  as 
much  good  as  other  people  say  he  did  harm  ?' 
'Why,  then,'  said  I,  'we'll  drop  the  matter 
without  a  line.'  'Well,'  I  told  him  'she 
[131] 


KA TRINA 


proved  it,  Mac;  brought  me  the  documents, 
gave  me  a  list  of  his  benefactions,  in  black  and 
white  —  one  million  dollars!" 

The  professor  rose  to  his  feet  at  the  mere 
memory  of  such  philanthropy. 

"One-million  dollars,  Mac!'  I  said  to 
him." 

"And  what  did  he  say  to  that?"  Katrina 
asked. 

1  *  June,'  said  he,  *  we'll  take  her  word  for  it,' 
and  was  just  as  quiet  as  a  lamb.  "Which 
only  proves,"  the  professor  added,  "that  with 
all  his  bluster,  Lawrence  McRae  has  as  gentle 
and  reasonable  a  soul  as  any  man." 


[132] 


IX 


PATERNAL   PROBLEMS 

THERE  are  no  troubles  in  the  world  so  easy 
to  be  borne  as  other  people's,  Mr.  Larry 
observed  in  his  "Cap  and  Bells,"  and  he 
used  to  say  that  as  a  newspaper-man  he  had 
endured  cheerfully  an  amount  of  suffering 
such  as  only  a  doctor,  or  a  lawyer  perhaps,  Or 
an  undertaker  could  comprehend.  Fire  and 
flood,  disease  and  murder,  and  all  the  evils 
that  flesh  is  heir  to,  had  left  him  smiling  and 
stout  of  heart,  and  he  was  wont  to  add  that 
had  it  not  been  for  a  few  small  annoyances  of 
his  own  to  deal  with,  a  disappointment  or 
trifling  misfortune  now  and  then,  or  sharp  re- 
gret, he  would  have  been,  beyond  question 
(barring  the  professor),  the  blithest  of  men. 
Gazing  about  him  upon  a  fretting  and  stewing 
world,  he  was  wont  to  marvel  at  the  wry  faces 
other  men  made,  and  at  the  pains  they  took, 
after  the  fashion  of  their  boyhood,  to  step  over 
cracks  —  only,  perhaps,  to  fall  head-foremost 
into  the  next  mill-pond,  a  fate  unpleasant  but 
[133] 


KA TRIN  A 


too  well-deserved  to  call  for  pity,  and  not  to  be 
compared  to  one's  own  duckings,  which,  he 
subtly  observed,  were  much  more  wet.  Jones, 
for  example,  was  worth  a  million  —  rode  in  his 
carriage  —  why  in  the  dumps  ?  Brown  was  a 
study  in  vulgar  lustiness —  knew  not  dyspepsia, 
dietetics,  therapeutics,  balms,  pellets  or  squills 
—  what  call  had  he  then,  to  bay  the  moon  ? 
A  thousand  blue  devils,  Mr.  Larry  reflected, 
had  homes  to  yowl  in,  while  he  passed  Withers- 
ward  under  their  windows,  snatching  a  whiff 
of  their  fragrant  sirloins,  or  watching  their 
children  about  their  lamps. 

Even  an  optimist,  it  appeared,  could  claim 
some  trouble  now  and  then  —  no  less  an 
optimist  than  William  June !  —  and  with  no 
more  reason  than  his  own  Katrina!  To  his 
friend,  the  bachelor,  Katrina's  childhood  was 
a  fairy  valley  in  which  she  played  and  sang, 
and  was  now  a  goose-girl,  but  would  be  a  shep- 
herdess—  by  and  by  a  queen.  Why  shake 
one's  head  over  such  an  idyl  ? 

"She's  an  angel,  William!" 

The  professor  smiled.  "Is  she  not?"  he 
said;  "but,  Mac - 

He  frowned  anxiously. 
[134] 


PATERNAL    PROBLEMS 

"  Am  I  doing  right  by  that  poor  child  ?  Am 
I  doing  the  best  for  her?  I'm  not  a  woman 
to  think  of  everything." 

"You  worry  like  one,"  the  bachelor  scorn- 
fully replied.  ;<You  cluck  like  a  hen.  By 
George,  you  do!  Why  I'd  crow,  William;  I'd 
flap  my  wings;  I'd  be  a  merry  old  rooster  if  I 
had  a  child  —  like  Katrina." 

"Yes,  but  she's  motherless,"  the  father  an- 
swered. "It's  a  responsibility  you  cannot 
dream  of,  to  bring  up  a  motherless  little  girl." 

"Tut!  Tut!"  the  bachelor  retorted  gal- 
lantly. "Just  let  her  grow,  man.  Let  her 
come  up,  like  the  grass  of  the  meadow,  the 
lilies  of  the  field,  like  a  crocus,  William.  Trust 
to  the  rain  and  the  sun.  You're  only  the 
gardener." 

"I  suppose  you're  right,"  the  professor 
answered.  "  She's  like  her  mother  —  more 
like  her  mother  every  day.  Still  - 

He  paused,  doubtfully.  Here  in  that  blessed 
human  inconsistency,  that  saving  grace  which 
keeps  men  brothers  against  their  will,  he  had 
forgotten  to  be  an  optimist.  It  was  an  over- 
sight, but  this  was  a  question  of  his  own  father- 
hood. For  the  nonce  he  had  exchanged 
[135] 


KA TRIN  A 


characters  with  Mr.  Larry;  the  bachelor  was 
the  rosy  theorist  now,  the  professor  the  man 
of  facts. 

It  was  a  night  in  autumn  and  the  professor 
and  Mr.  Larry,  meeting  by  chance,  had 
walked  slowly  in  the  direction  of  the  boarding- 
house,  the  steps  of  which  were  already  occu- 
pied in  spite  of  the  coolness  in  the  air. 

"Won't  you  come  up ?"  Mr.  Larry  asked. 

"I  would  like  to,"  the  other  replied,  sur- 
prised, "but  it  is  growing  late." 

"  It  does  not  matter,"  was  the  prompt  assur- 
ance, so  they  mounted  the  stairs  to  the  smug- 
gler's den,  which  the  professor  examined  with  a 
knowing  and  curious  eye.  Smiling  together 
over  Katrina's  visit  there,  they  removed  their 
coats  and  Mr.  Larry  seated  his  guest  in  the 
one  soft  chair  the  room  afforded,  while  he 
stretched  himself,  smoking,  upon  the  bed. 

"Think,"  he  said,  "of  the  Intuitions  she 
must  have  had." 

The  professor  nodded.  There  was  a  very 
fond  light  in  his  eyes  as  he  replied. 

"Dear  Trina!     She  was  always  an  old  little 
thing.     That  comes,  I  suppose  from  not  hav- 
ing her  mother.     Mac  - 
[136] 


PATERNAL    PROBLEMS 

The  professor  hesitated.  He  glanced 
timidly  at  the  long,  lean,  reclining  figure  of 
Mr.  Larry,  ^hose  profile  had  never  seemed 
to  him  so  like  an  Indian's  as  it  did  now  with 
the  thin  blue  smoke  from  the  cigarette  curling 
upward  about  those  swarthy,  melancholy  fea- 
tures —  hair  drooping,  lids  drooping,  nose 
down,  lips  down ;  no  hint  whatever  of  what  his 
thoughts  might  be,  or  what  his  mood  was;  no 
slightest  glimmer  of  assurance  that  the  profes- 
sor's confidence  might  not  awaken  those  stolid 
muscles  into  the  scornful  life  he  knew  so  well, 
and  just  now  feared.  The  truth  was:  the 
little  professor  had  a  gentle  awe,  sometimes, 
of  Mr.  Larry. 

"Mac,"  he  said,  "I  know  your  views,  but 
I'm  rather  troubled  about  the  child." 

"Why?  Nothing  wrong,  I  hope.  She's 
well,  isn't  she?" 

"Perfectly.  That  is,  I  believe  so.  I  hope 
so,"  the  professor  answered. 

"What  then?" 

"Mac,"  said  the  father,  earnestly,  "she 
doesn't  laugh.  She  doesn't  laugh,  I  tell 
you." 

The  Indian  profile  slowly  awoke;  the  head 
[137]  ' 


KA TRINA 


turned,  and  the  eyes  were  lifted  into  a  stare 
of  inquiry  and  mild  astonishment. 

"What's  that?" 

"She  doesn't  laugh,  I  tell  you,"  the  pro- 
fessor repeated,  now  much  agitated  with  the 
thought.  "  I've  been  noticing  lately,  and  she 
doesn't  laugh  like  other  girls.  That  isn't 
youth,  Mac.  The  house  ought  to  ring  with 
laughter.  Mine  doesn't." 

Mr.  Larry  continued  to  regard  the  professer 
with  calm  surprise. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "how  do  you  explain  it, 
William?" 

"I  don't  explain  it,"  the  professor  replied. 
"That's  just  the  point.  That's  just  what 
troubles  me.  She's  happy  apparently,  but 
she  isn't  noisy  like  other  girls.  I've  only  just 
noticed  it.  She  doesn't  romp." 

'You  ought  to  play  with  her,"  said  Mr. 
Larry. 

The  professor  brightened. 

"Oh,  I  do,"hesaid.     "We  do  play  together." 

"Do  you  play  games  together?"  Mr.  Larry 
asked. 

'  Yes.     Yes.     We    play    every    evening  - 
every  evening." 

[138] 


PATERNAL    PROBLEMS 

Mr.  Larry  did  not  speak  at  once. 

"What?"  he  inquired  with  grave  delibera- 
tion—  "just  what  do  you  play,  William  ?" 

"Cribbage,  Mac.  We  play  cribbage  every 
evening." 

Mr.  Larry's  voice  was  very  mild : 

"Cribbage,  William?" 

"Cribbage,  Mac."  The  professor's  face  was 
now  aglow.     "It's  a  good  game,"  he  asserted; 
"  a   good    game,    Mac.     And    sometimes  - 
sometimes  we  play  checkers." 

Mr.  Larry  shook  his  head. 

"William,  William,"  he  said  earnestly, 
"you  really  must  be  careful." 

"Careful?     How  do  you  mean?" 

"Careful  of  your  heart,  William,"  Mr. 
Larry  replied,  taking  refuge  again  in  the 
drooping  profile.  "Not  to  get  overheated, 
you  know  —  with  your  exertions,  William." 

"  Why,"the  professor  replied,  "cribbage  is  not 
what  you  call  a  strenuous  game,  Mac,  or  checkers 
either.  I  don't  just  grasp  your  point  of  view." 

"It    doesn't    matter,"    was    the    answer. 
"Simply   take    care    of   yourself,    that's    all. 
You  play  other  games,  I  suppose:  Slide  down 
the  banisters  now  and  then?" 
[139] 


KA TRINA 


The  professor  laughed. 

"Oh,  I  see,  you're  joking,"  he  replied. 
"But  you  don't  seem  to  understand  cribbage, 
Mac.  Cribbage  is  a  game  of  cards." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  Mr.  Larry  drawled 
softly,  still  smoking  in  a  sad  and  thoughtful 
way.  "I  had  an  aunt  who  adored  the  game; 
she  said  it  was  —  circumspect,  I  believe  her 
word  was.  Mind,  I  don't  ask,  or  even  advise 
you  to  give  it  up  —  only  be  careful,  that  is 
all.  But  what  I  want  to  get  at  is:  don't 
you  ever  romp,  and  raise  the  roof  with 
Katrina  —  and  her  friends?  She  must 
know  girls  of  the  romping  kind.  Now  a 
proper  father  romps  with  his  child  - 
tousles  her,  tickles  her,  pulls  her  hair,  plays 
bear  with  her,  William.  7  would  —  with 
Katrina." 

"Why,  Mac,"  said  the  professor,  "I'm 
fifty-one!" 

The  profile  vanished. 

"Good  heavens,  man!  What's  fifty-one? 
—  when  you're  a  father?" 

The  professor  was  silent.     Mr.  Larry  lighted 
another  cigarette   and   puffed   as   reflectively 
and  gloomily  as  before. 
[140] 


PATERNAL    PROBLEMS 

"What  else,  William?"  he  inquired  more 
gently.  "  What  else  do  you  do  ?  " 

"Well,"  was  the  reply,  though  in  a  tone  less 
confident  than  before,  "we  have  the  —  stere- 
opticon  views." 

"Ah,  yes,  to  be  sure,"  Mr.  Larry  murmured ; 
"  Stereopticon  views.  Foreign  travel,  Will- 
iam?" 

"Well,  yes,  in  a  way,"  the  professor  an- 
swered. "Ruins;  temples;  bas  reliefs;  archi- 
tectural details  —  ancient  remains,  you  know. 
Beautiful  views!  Beautiful!  And  some  col- 
ored. Professor  Keppler  gave  them  to  me 
before  he  died." 

"  Katrina  would  dote  on  them,"  Mr.  Larry 
suggested. 

"Yes;  she  is  immensely  taken  with  them. 
She  is  making  a  collection  of  antique  coins." 

"And  what  else,  William?  You  take  her 
to  the  circus,  now  and  then,  of  course  ?  And 
Uncle  Tarn's  Cabin?" 

"N-no,"  was  the  reply,  "but  we  do  go 
out,  Mac,  if  that's  what  you  mean.  Oh,  I'm 
not  so  thoughtless  as  you  may  think.  Why, 
only  last  week  I  took  her  to  Joffett's.  You 
know  Joffett,  of  course?" 
[141] 


KA TRINA 


"  Well,  yes  —  Joff ett.  You  took  her  to 
Joffett's?"  The  tone  was  incredulous. 

"Yes,"  said  the  professor.  ;'You  may  not 
have  heard,  but  Henry  Joffett  has  one  of  the 
finest  private  collections  in  the  country,  if  not 
in  the  world." 

"Collection?"  Mr.  Larry  inquired  sus- 
piciously. "  Collection  of  what  ?  " 

"Mummies." 

"  Mummies!" 

The  professor  nodded. 

"And  mummy  cases.  It's  celebrated.  The 
National  History  Museum  of  New  York  City 
has  offered  him  —  by  George,  I  forget.  It's 
a  large  sum,  though.  You  must  see  it,  Mac." 

"Good  God,  William!  Cribbage!  Coins! 
Ancient  architecture!  Mummies!  You  don't 
suppose  that  the  child  can  laugh  on  a  diet  like 
that,  do  you?" 

Mr.  Larry  had  risen  from  the  bed  and  was 
prowling  up  and  down  the  chamber. 

"Why,  my  dear  William,  she  ought  to  be 
playing  pull-away,  and  going  to  circuses,  and 
taffy-pulls,  and  hitching  on  bobs,  and  having 
beaux!" 

The  professor  gasped. 
[142] 


PATERNAL    PROBLEMS 

"Having  beaux,  Mac!" 

"Sure!"  was  Mr.  Larry's  answer.  "Maybe 
you  don't  know  that  I  was  Sissy  Budd's 
beau  for  a  whole  summer,  up  at  Perkins's. 
She  wasn't  eleven  then." 

Mr.  Larry  waved  his  cigarette. 

"Instead,"  he  resumed,  "instead  of  the  joys 
of  life,  what  do  we  discover  in  Katrina's  case  ? 
Lovely  child  —  the  constant  companion  of  a 

—  an  elderly  literary  gentleman  —  who  feeds 
her  on  thin  slices  of  steropticon  views,  and 
cribbage  salad,  till  she's  the  nicest,  cleverest 
little  long-worded  thing  you  ever  saw,  William 

—  and  a  darling,  by  thunder!  —  but  without 
a  rope  skipped!  without  one  wild,  frolicsome 
screeching  moment !  —  or  lover's  greeting  — 
to  call  to  mind  when  she  grows  up  and  just  natu- 
rally spinsters  away,  like  a  hollyhock  after  frost!" 

The  professor  stared. 

"  Mac,"  he  said,  "  is  it  as  bad  as  that  ?" 

"Well,  no,"  Mr.  Larry  replied  judiciously, 
"I  won't  say  that.  I  may  have  emphasized 
things  a  little,  William,  but  I  wanted  you  to 
see  them  as  a  father  should." 

"  Mac,"  said  the  professor,  gravely.  "  I  have 
been  very  blind." 

[143] 


KA TRIN  A 


The  bachelor  regarded  the  repentant  father 
with  some  complacency. 

;<You  see  what  I'm  driving  at,  don't  you, 
William?" 

"  Perfectly,"  was  the  sad  reply.  "  I've  been 
a  fool,  Mac." 

"Oh,  no."  Mr.  Larry  assured  him,  assum- 
ing a  more  cheerful  air.  "I  wouldn't  go  as 
far  as  that,  William.  You  may  have  been  a 
trifle  thoughtless.  All  men  are.  But  it  isn't 
too  late.  At  least  that's  what  Sissy  Budd  said 
when  I  asked  her  to  marry  me.  I  guess  I  was 
ten." 

But  the  professor's  mind  was  not  at  Per- 
kins's. "I  don't  think  I  ever  really  learned 
to  play,"  he  said  slowly,  fumbling  with  his 
watch  chain.  "  Father  never  played.  He  was 
a  farmer,  and  poor,  and  without  much  school- 
ing; and  my!  how  he  loved  a  book!  Why, 
books  came  from  heaven  —  school  books,  I 
mean.  *  William,'  he  used  to  say  when  he 
caught  me  idling,  'William,  do  you  know 
you're  a  thief,  sir?  Well,  you  are.  You  are 
stealing  an  hour  —  from  eternity.' ' 

The  professor  pondered. 

"He  was  a  stern  man,  father  was,  but  he 
[144] 


PATERNAL    PROBLEMS 

tried  to  do  the  best  for  me.  He  saved,  for  my 
sake  —  he  and  mother  —  scrimped  and  saved 
and  sent  me  down  east,  where  the  books  were 
then.  I  went  to  Harvard.  It  was  little 
enough  I  had  to  live  on,  but  I  made  it  do.  I 
have  known  hunger." 

The  professor  rose  and  began  to  pace  up 
and  down  the  room. 

"Winters,"  he  said,  "I  was  pretty  cold, 
sometimes,  but  it  didn't  daunt  me.  It  was 
hard  then,  but  I  knew  what  those  books  would 
win  me  in  the  end.  Why,  I'd  study  till  morn- 
ing, while  other  fellows  sky-larked.  I  could 
hear  them,  midnights,  under  my  window, 
wasting  their  time  —  frittering  it  away  in  use- 
less idleness.  Many's  the  night  I  prayed  for 
them,  on  my  knees." 

He  paused  by  Mr.  Larry's  bureau,  fingering 
the  brushes  there. 

"They  were  wrong,  of  course,"  he  said 
mildly,  "spending  their  parents'  hard-earned 
dollars  in  vicious  ways,  but  they  had  what  I 
never  had:  youth  and  laughter,  and  college 
songs  —  and  warm  blood  running  through 
their  veins,  while  I  was  shivering." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
[145] 


KA TRIN  A 


"  It  was  mighty  cold,  Mac.  But  I  won  some 
honors,"  he  added  proudly,  half-smiling  at  the 
recollection.  His  eyes  rested  upon  Mr.  Larry, 
but  without  seeing  him. 

"And  then  ?"  said  the  bachelor. 

"Why,  I  came  away." 

The  professor  leaned  back  against  the 
bureau  and  folded  his  arms. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  said,  "  strangely  enough, 
some  of  those  very  fellows  I  used  to  pray  for 
have  reformed!  Yes,  sir;  become  useful  citi- 
zens!—  why,  taken  places  I'd  like  to  fill!" 

Mr.  Larry  nodded. 

"It's  the  way  of  the  world,  William,"  he 
replied.  "The  world's  not  made  of  books, 
you  know,  but  men." 

The  professor  pondered. 

"I  guess  you're  right,  Mac!  not  books  but 
men." 

He  continued  to  lean  thoughtfully  against 
the  bureau,  gazing  into  air  and  speaking  at 
intervals,  still  of  the  past  and  sometimes  wist- 
fully, though  in  his  face  there  was  but  the 
dimmest  shadow  of  his  regret.  His  old 
smile  hovered  there,  and  his  brown  eyes 
beamed  with  his  innocent  reveries,  reminding 
[146] 


PATERNAL    PROBLEMS 

Mr.  Larry,  puffing  and  listening  in  his  sober 
worldliness,  that  though  William  June  had 
had  no  youth,  as  he  had  said,  he  was  still  a  child. 

"I  have  always  wondered,"  the  professor 
said,  "how  Katrina  Longford  came  to  marry 
me.  Dear  girl,  she  knew  other,  and  likelier, 
and  younger,  men.  One  especially  —  an  odd, 
wild  sort  of  fellow,  I've  heard  it  said  —  was 
deep  in  love  with  her,  before  I  knew  her.  I 
never  saw  him." 

The  professor's  face  grew  very  tender. 

"I  wish  you  could  have  known  my  wife," 
he  said.  "  Katrina's  like  her  —  like  her  to  a 
T.  Why,  only  this  morning  I  was  standing 
by  the  window  looking  out  upon  the  street. 
I  didn't  hear  her  till  she  held  me  fast,  but 
turning  my  head  a  little,  then,  I  caught  her 
profile  in  the  mirror  on  the  wall.  Mac  — " 

The  professor  gasped. 

"  It  was  her  mother  there ! " 

Mr.  Larry  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"Professor,"  he  cried,  "have  another  ciga- 
rette!" 

The  professor  stared.     Mr.  Larry  laughed. 

"That's  so;  you  don't  smoke,  do  you,"  he 
said.     "Well,  I'll  have  another,  then." 
[147] 


KA TRIN  A 


The  professor  roused  himself. 

"By  George!"  he  said,  "do  you  know  what 
time  it  is?  It's  midnight,  Mac!  And  that 
poor  child's  waiting  up  for  me!" 

"Does  she  wait  up  for  you?"  Mr.  Larry 
asked. 

"Always,"  was  the  answer,  "just  like  her 
mother,  however  late.  I've  begged  her  not  to, 
but  when  I  get  home,  there  I'll  find  her  waiting 
in  my  chair." 

"  In  your  chair  ?"  Mr.  Larry  repeated,  help- 
ing the  professor  with  his  coat. 

"Yes,"  said  the  father.  "I'll  stop  by  the 
lilacs  before  I  go  in,  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  her, 
through  the  study  window.  And  there  she'll 
be,  all  wrapped  up  in  a  little  Red  Riding  Hood 
kind  of  thing,  and  nodding  over  her  book,  or 
asleep  may  be  —  and  there's  a  picture,  Mac, 
/  tell  you !  Well  —  I'll  say  good  night.  Won't 
you  come  and  see  us?  You  never  do,  you 
know,  and  it  troubles  Katrina.  Come." 

"By  George,  I  will!"  Mr.  Larry  cried  — 
"if  you  don't  mind,  William.  It's  only  mid- 
night. Hold  on  a  minute  till  I  get  my  hat!" 


[148] 


X 


KATRINA  S    DIARY 

OCTOBER  1.  —  It  is  just  one  year  ago  to-day 
that  I  began  to  keep  my  diary.  Ah,  me !  How 
many  things  have  happened  since  that  day  - 
Cleopatra's  kittens  grown  up  into  four  gray 
cats  as  fine  as  one  could  wish  to  see  —  poor 
Carlo  dead  —  I  shall  never,  never  forget  that 
dreadful  morning  we  laid  him  to  rest  beyond 
the  cabbages.  Alas!  the  tears  I  shed.  Dear 
doggie!  I  shall  never  see  you  or  hear  you 
bark  or  beg  any  more.  How  strange  life  is! 
So  much  for  the  animal  kingdom.  Our  hu- 
man circle  remains  unbroken,  for  which  I 
ought  to  be  very  thankful  indeed,  and  am. 
As  to  myself  I  have  made  some  progress  in  my 
intellectual  experience.  Not  only  have  I 
passed  with  an  A  in  all  my  studies  but  I  have 
perused  Little  Dorrit,  Old  Curiosity  Shop,  part 
of  his  Child's  History  of  England,  Little  Women 
(twice),  The  Yellow  Fairy  Book,  The  Green 
Fairy  Book,  The  Blue  Fairy  Book,  and  at  in- 
tervals Selections  from  the  World's  Best  Poets, 
[149] 


KA TRIN  A 


to  say  nothing  of  shorter  works  too  numerous 
to  mention.  I  have  joined  the  Y.  P.  S.  C.  E. 
Otherwise  I  am  well  and  happy,  and  I  pray 
that  I  may  be  a  good  daughter  to  my  dear 
father  and  that  he  may  be  spared  to  me  through 
the  coming  year  and  many  more  is  the  prayer 

of  his  affectionate  child. 

*  *  #  *  *  * 

OCTOBER  4.  —  I  am  reading  the  loveliest 
story.  It  is  called  Persuasion  by  Jane  Austen. 
It  is  so  old-fashioned  and  true  to  life,  and 
Anne  is  just  what  I  want  to  be  some  day,  God 
willing. 

OCTOBER  5.  —  Late  last  night  as  I  was 
sitting  in  my  father's  study  reading  Persuasion, 
who  should  come  in  with  him  but  Mr.  Larry! 
It  was  most  awkward,  for  I  was  in  my  red  slum- 
ber-robe which  my  Aunt  Miranda  gave  me  for 
Christmas  a  year  ago.  At  first  he  seemed  as 
shy  as  I,  and  would  have  gone  away,  I  think, 
without  looking,  had  I  not  (fortunately)  re- 
covered my  presence  of  mind,  for  my  dear 
father's  sake,  and  proffered  him  chocolate, 
which  he  drank  with  relish.  After  which  we 
chatted  of  minor  matters,  Mr.  Larry  pre- 
suming to  joke  with  me,  declaring  up  and 
[150] 


"IT    WAS    MOST   AWKWARD" 


KA  TRINA'S    DIARY 


down  that  I  had  been  caught  napping  over  my 
book,  which  was  most  unjust,  and  not  true  at 
all,  for  how  could  I  have  been  asleep  when  I 
heard  them  come  up  the  steps  together  and 
open  the  door  ?  He  said  they  saw  me  through 
the  window,  but  I  told  him  plainly  that  it  was 
not  my  custom  to  fall  asleep  over  books,  having 
been  a  great  reader  almost  from  infancy.  With 
much  difficulty  I  kept  my  temper,  remember- 
ing that  he  was  our  guest,  and  knowing  how 
father  would  feel  if  there  was  a  scene,  or 
anything.  He  was  most  disagreeable,  though 
far  be  it  from  me  to  judge,  for  he  seemed 
embarrassed  from  the  first,  doubtless  by  my 
predicament. 

OCTOBER  6.  —  How  different  men  are. 
Father  is  so  gentle  and  listens  respectfully  to 
what  one  says,  and  if  one  makes  a  mistake  or 
anything  is  always  a  gentleman.  It  is  other- 
wise I  find  with  other  men.  How  proud  I 
ought  to  be  to  possess  so  kind  a  father,  and 
am,  and  I  shall  always  endeavor  to  remember 
and  be  thankful  for  all  the  happy,  happy  hours 
we  have  spent  together,  talking  over  books 
and  other  serious  and  improving  subjects,  and 
not  merely  joking  in  the  silly  way  men  often 
[151] 


KA T  RIN  A 


have.  While  he  is  spared  to  me  I  shall  never 
marry.  Indeed  I  have  never  even  thought  of 
such  a  thing. 

*P  1*  *|*  T?  *t*  *f* 

OCTOBER  8.  —  Mary  Brown  is  very  angry 
with  her  mother  for  not  letting  her  go  down 
town  nights  after  school.  One  ought  never 
to  be  angry  with  one's  mother,  for  she  is  only 
trying  to  do  the  best  she  can.  Besides,  candy 
decays  the  teeth.  Mary  was  quite  cross  with 
me  and  said  I  didn't  know  what  I  was  talking 
about.  I  suppose  she  meant  because  I  didn't 
have  any  mother.  Well  it  seems  to  me  that 
a  girl  doesn't  have  to  have  one  to  know  how  a 
mother  feels.  I  am  sure  that  when  /  have  a 
daughter  I  shall  be  very  careful.  That  is 
what  a  mother  is  for,  and  I  shall  make  a  great 
pet  of  my  little  girl  and  her  name  shall  be 
Mignon  or  Gwendoline.  I  am  not  sure  which. 
And  I  shall  reason  with  her,  and  in  that  way 
prevent  her  from  being  angry  with  me.  Still 
one  must  never  be  too  sure.  Time  alone  can 

tell. 

*  *  #  *  *  * 

OCTOBER  12.  —  Sometimes  as  I  sit  in  the 
twilight  thoughts  come  to  me,  and  I  am  not 
[152] 


KA TRIN  A'  S    DIAR Y 


unhappy,  and  I  don't  know  why  I  am  sure,  but 
I  feel  like  crying.  It  is  then  that  I  love  every- 
body very  much  and  long  to  help  them  and  be 
kind  to  the  sick  and  poor  and  weary  laden, 
and  sometimes  then  I  feel  I  could  write  a  poem 
if  I  could  only  find  the  words  to  rhyme.  I  feel 
sure  that  Jane  Austen  and  Louisa  M.  Alcott 
must  have  felt  this  way  when  they  were  girls, 
and  sometimes  I  wonder  if  I  too  may  not  write 
some  day.  Perhaps.  Who  knows  ? 

OCTOBER  13.  -  -  Yes,  I  should  like  to  be  a 
poetess.  That  is  my  one  ambition  now.  I 
have  thought  it  all  out  and  I  have  made  up 
my  mind.  I  used  to  think  I  should  like  to  be 
a  trained  nurse  or  a  missionary,  but  now  I 
know  that  what  I  really  wanted  all  the  time 
was  to  be  a  poetess.  Poetesses  are  really  help- 
ful in  their  way  and  it  is  so  beautiful  to  be  able 
to  think  great  thoughts  and  make  people  love 
you  even  when  they  do  not  know  you  at  all. 
Many  people  are  fitted  by  nature  to  be  mis- 
sionaries and  trained  nurses,  but  it  is  only 
now  and  then  that  a  poetess  is  born.  Some 
might  think  it  is  conceited  to  try  to  be  one,  but 
it  is  not.  One  cannot  help  the  thoughts  that 
come. 

[153] 


KA TRIN  A 


OCTOBER  16.  —  With  the  money  Aunt  Mi- 
randa sent  me  I  have  purchased  a  new 
cloak,  which  I  sorely  needed,  my  old  blue  one 
being  quite  worn  out.  The  new  one  is  a  soft 
gray  and  very  pretty,  with  a  rose-colored  lining 
which  makes  it  quite  effective  when  left  un- 
buttoned and  the  wind  blowing.  Not  that  I 
shall  often  wear  it  so,  disliking  attention  in 
public  places,  and  I  do  not  approve  of  such 
things  anyhow.  Anne  did  not,  I  am  sure. 
Polly  Lowe  is  to  have  one  like  it,  only  her 
lining  is  to  be  a  plaid,  but  I  like  mine  best. 
While  I  was  showing  it  to  father  who  should 
walk  in  but  Mr.  Larry,  who  seems  to  have 
taken  a  sudden  notion  to  calling  here.  I 
thought  it  strange  after  his  former  unexplain- 
able  conduct  and  I  took  the  liberty  one  day  to 
ask  him  why.  He  only  laughed  and  said  "Be- 
cause you're  father's  forgot  to  be  an  optimist," 
at  which  I  gazed  upon  him  in  amazement. 
He  is  a  very  singular  man,  to  say  the  least,  but 
he  was  very  pleasant  about  the  cloak,  and 
called  me  a  little  Quakeress  in  it.  To  be  sure 
I  did  not  mind  that,  for  what  would  Penn- 
sylvania have  been  without  William  Penn? 
[154] 


KA  TRINA'S    DIARY 


And  "thee"  and  "thou"  are  very  pretty 
words  to  use,  I  think,  and  I  always  did  like 
gray  to  wear.  Mr.  Larry  can  be  most  affable 
when  he  chooses.  It  is  only  when  he  tries  to 
be  amusing  that  he  fails  to  charm. 

OCTOBER  17.  —  I  have  finished  Persuasion, 
the  loveliest  story  I  ever  read,  and  I  have 
made  up  my  mind  to  read  it  often  —  once  a 
year  at  least,  I  think  —  in  order  that  I  may 
never  forget  to  be  like  Anne.  It  is  my  favorite 
book.  Never  have  I  read  such  perfect  Eng- 
lish. If  I  could  write  like  that,  it  would  be 
bliss.  In  fact  if  I  do  not  decide  to  be  a  poetess 
I  shall  become  a  novelist,  I  think,  though  either 
would  be  very  satisfactory.  Miss  Austen  had 
such  a  quaint  old-fashioned  way  of  telling 
things.  On  the  whole  she  is  quite  different 
from  Dickens,  or  Sir  Walter  Scott,  or  E.  P. 
Roe. 

OCTOBER  18.  —  We  have  had  such  a  sur- 
prise! To-day  at  luncheon  I  noted  that 
father  seemed  to  have  something  on  his  mind. 
Twice,  I  know,  he  started  to  speak  of  it,  but 
changed  his  mind,  so  that  I  kept  wondering 
what  it  could  be,  but  refrained  from  asking. 
Well,  this  evening  at  dinner  he  was  most  agi- 
[155] 


KA TRINA 


tated.  His  eyes  kept  dancing  and  three  or 
four  times  he  laughed  out  loud  when  nothing 
had  been  said.  I  asked  him  if  he  were  well. 
He  replied  "Yes,  why  do  you  ask?"  "You 
seem  so  excited,"  said  I.  "  I  was  only  think- 
ing," was  his  vague  answer,  so  I  said  no  more. 
Well,  after  dinner  I  went  as  usual  for  the 
cribbage  board.  "  Oh,  never  mind,"  said  he, 
and  laughed  boisterously.  "  I  guess  we  won't 
play  cribbage  to-night,"  he  remarked,  still 
laughing  as  before.  "Not  play  cribbage!" 
I  cried  aghast,  for  we  always  play  cribbage 
after  dinner  except  on  Sunday.  "I've  got  a 
new  game  for  you,"  he  managed  to  articulate, 
and  thus  the  domestic  scene  went  on,  for  all 
the  world  like  one  from  Jane  Austen's  ready 
pen,  —  he  in  his  easy  chair  before  the  ruddy 
fire  and  the  autumn  wind  roaring  in  the  chim- 
ney, and  alas!  poor  me  standing  speechless 
with  the  cribbage  board.  Whereupon  he 
took  from  his  pocket  a  little  box.  "We'll 
play  a  new  game,"  he  remarked,  his  eyes 
glistening.  "And  what,  pray,  is  that?"  I 
inquired  respectfully.  "They  call  it,"  said 
he  —  pausing  to  examine  the  name  upon  the 
box  —  "Tiddle-dy- winks,"  and  it  proved  a 
[156] 


KA  TRINA'S    DIARY 


most  ingenious  game,  indeed,  consisting  of  a 
receptacle  into  which  one  snaps  little  colored 
disks  with  varying  success.  We  were  very 
merry  over  our  new  pastime,  and  thus  the 
hours  sped  with  much  felicity  till  the  clock 
warned  us  that  dawn  drew  nigh. 

OCTOBER  19.  —  I  have  altered  my  name 
to  Katrina  Longford  Austen  June,  in  memory 
of  my  favorite  authoress. 

OCTOBER  20.  -  -  Mr.  Larry  has  taken  to 
coming  often,  for  which  I  am  very  glad  indeed. 
Poor  daddy!  He  has  only  his  daughter  for 
companionship,  and  she  is  too  young  and  inex- 
perienced, I  fear,  to  be  very  edifying.  I  am 
sure  I  try  to  talk  always  of  things  that  will 
interest  my  poor  dear  father,  but  as  the  saying 
is  "the  flesh  is  weak." 

OCTOBER  25.  —  To-night  after  school, 
Elizabeth  Wendell,  Sara  Williams,  May  Bron- 
son  and  Polly  Lowe  and  I  went  out  for  a  walk 
in  the  autumn  woods  and  fields.  How  truly 
the  poet  sings : 

"The  melancholy  days  have  come, 
The  saddest  of  the  year." 
[157] 


KA TRINA 


In  autumn  everything  we  have  loved  in  the 
happy  summertime  is  dying  —  our  friends  the 
flowers  and  the  green  leaves  and  the  blades  of 
grass.  How  natural  it  is  that  we  are  sad! 
It  was  great  fun  gathering  the  final  golden-rod 
and  daisies,  and  we  walked  so  fast  and  there 
were  so  many  vines  tripping  us  up,  and  so 
many  fences  to  climb,  and  we  all  fell  to  laugh- 
ing and  giggling  —  Polly  was  so  funny  tumb- 
bling!  —  that  we  came  home  all  out  of  breath, 
and  father  said  he  had  never  seen  my  cheeks 
so  red.  I  don't  know  when  I  have  laughed 
so  much,  I  am  sure,  and  I  tore  my  dress  on  a 
bramble,  for  which  I  am  sorry,  but  there 
is  no  use  crying  over  spilled  milk,  as  the  saying 
is.  We  got  simply  covered  with  thistle-down. 
The  woods  were  gold  and  crimson  and  the 
thrifty  squirrels  were  busy  with  their  winter 
stores.  We  brought  home  gorgeous  leaves, 
especially  maple.  Oh,  Autumn,  how  sad  thou 
art!  Yet  a  little  while  and  it  will  be  winter 
with  its  chilling  blasts  and  we  shall  be  wear- 
ing leggings.  How  strange  life  is,  and  won- 
derful ! 

*|»  3f*  3J>  -;»  -;.  5JC 

OCTOBER  27.  -  -  This  afternoon  our  class  in 
[158] 


KATRINA'S    DIARY 


English  had  an  impromptu  old-fashioned 
spelling  match,  and  to  my  great  joy  I  was 
victorious,  though  perhaps  it  is  the  less  sur- 
prising because  I  have  read  so  much  in  the 
world's  best  literature.  I  stood  alone  for 
some  little  time,  but  at  last  capitulated,  my 
Waterloo  being  the  word  "Epiphany,"  a 
most  subtile  word,  for  one  would  think  it  was 
spelled  with  an  "  F,"  and  it  is  not.  I  was  sorry 
to  sit  down,  though  after  all  it  was  almost  an 
honor  to  do  so,  I  thought,  on  a  word  like  that, 
and  not  on  some  simple  one  like  "octogena- 
rian," or  "incompatibility,"  which  are  long  of 
course,  but  quite  easy  if  you  take  them  by 
degrees. 

3|C  JfC  3JC  ?t*  »jC  JjC 

OCTOBER  30.  —  Father  brought  Mr.  Larry 
home  to-night,  to  dinner,  quite  unexpectedly. 
Naturally  I  was  in  a  fluster  trying  to  remember 
how  he  took  his  tea,  but  it  seems  he  never  does 
take  it,  so  I  had  all  my  pains  for  nothing  after 
all.  To  be  sure  the  beefsteak  was  very  small, 
but  father  and  I  took  little  pieces  (by  pre- 
arrangement)  and  there  was  an  omelette  be- 
sides, and  Mrs.  Langley  loaned  us  sardines. 
As  I  said  above  Mr.  Larry  declined  tea  utterly 
[159] 


KA T  RIN  A 


at  which  poor  father  seemed  ill  at  ease,  and 
inquired  what  we  might  offer  him.  He  only 
laughed  and  said,  "  Nothing  just  now.  Later 
in  the  evening  I'll  have  a  little  whisky,  if  you 
don't  mind,  William."  Father  also  tried  to 
laugh,  but  out  of  courtesy  as  I  could  see,  for 
he  grew  quite  red.  Surely  Mr.  Larry  must 
have  known  that  we  are  temperance  and 
never  keep  liquor  in  the  house,  but  he  pre- 
tended not  to,  and  sure  enough,  later  in  the 
evening  he  asked  quite  gravely  for  a  drink, 
twice,  though  father  frowned  and  even  coughed. 
Through  the  whole  performance  I  sat  quite 
rigid  and  did  my  best  to  change  the  subject, 
without  avail.  So  father  rose,  and  going  to 
the  kitchen,  returned  presently  with  a  bottle 
of  cooking  brandy.  Strangely  enough,  Mr. 
Larry  seemed  to  remember  his  manners,  and 
attempted  to  decline,  but  father  was  very  fierce 
for  father  and  would  not  hear  of  his  refusing 
our  hospitality,  compelling  him  to  drink  a 
glassful  of  the  fiery  stuff.  For  the  life  of  me  I 
do  not  see  what  pleasure  men  find  in  alcholic 
beverages,  judging  by  the  faces  Mr.  Larry 
made,  and  I  noted  that  he  left  a  little  in  his 
glass.  Yet  I  distinctly  overheard  him  re- 
[160] 


KA  T  RI  N  A'  S    DIARY 


mark  to  father  as  he  left  the  house  something 
about "  one  on  me,"  which  I  believe  is  a  vulgar 
expression  for  asking  a  man  to  take  a  drink. 
Mr.  Larry's  conduct  is  incomprehensible. 

OCTOBER  31.  --  We  only  play  one  game  of 
Tiddle-dy-winks  now  after  dinner.  Father 
finds  cribbage,  he  says,  more  lasting  in  its 
effects. 

NOVEMBER  1.  —  Mr.  Larry  has  asked  me 
to  go  to  the  park  with  him  on  Sunday,  and 
to-night  he  brought  me  a  box  of  chocolates. 
He  is  not  what  one  terms  a  handsome  man, 
but  at  times  there  is  something  very  attractive 
about  him.  How  he  has  remained  single  so 
long  is  a  mystery  to  me.  That  he  needs  the 
refining  touch  of  a  woman's  hand  I  do  not 
deny,  but  even  without  it  he  is  a  man  of 
taste,  and  of  great  information,  father  says. 
Dear  father!  He  always  buys  me  stick 
candy,  forgetting  that  I  am  no  longer  a  little 
child. 

NOVEMBER  2.  —  Oh,  these  beautiful  hazy 
autumn  days!  Polly  Lowe  and  I  went  walk- 
ing in  the  park  this  afternoon  and  I  found  a 
violet  growing  among  the  fallen  leaves.  It 
has  moved  me  to  write  these  simple  lines : 
[161] 


KA TRINA 


THE  LAST  VIOLET 
Oh,  violet,  dear  violet, 
Why  do  you  stay  so  late  ? 
You  linger  in  the  wild  wood, 
Not  thinking  of  your  fate. 

Oh,  violet,  dear  violet, 
The  winter's  coming  soon. 
The  birds  are  flying  southward, 
Cold  is  the  autumn  moon. 

Oh,  violet,  dear  violet, 

I'll  take  thee  to  my  heart. 

You  need  not  fear  at  all,  sweet  flow'r, 

Immortal  there  thou  art.     . 

In  case  of  my  early  death,  which  alas !  is  not 
uncommon  in  this  vale  of  tears,  if  my  friends 
should  ever  collect  my  poems  for  publication, 
I  desire  this  one  to  stand  first,  in  the  first 
division  of  the  book  called  "Early  Verse." 
The  book  itself  will  be  called  "Arbutus," 
unless  some  other  poet  has  taken  that  name, 
which  sometimes  happens.  In  that  case  I 
should  like  it  called  "Lillies  of  the  Valley," 
my  next  favorite  flower.  And  I  should  want 
my  name  to  be  printed  in  full  —  Katrina 
[162] 


KA  TRINA'S    DIARY 


Longford  Austen  June.  Longford  was  my 
mother's  name.  There  is  said  to  be  an  estate 
in  Ireland  belonging  to  our  family,  but  no  one 
knows  where,  for  the  papers  have  gone  astray. 

NOVEMBER  10.  -  -  The  older  I  grow  the  more 
I  realize  that  life  is  not  ours  to  do  as  we  please 
with.  We  have  a  duty  to  perform.  Let  us 
do  it  with  a  will. 

*f*  ***  H*  *t*  1*  *K 

NOVEMBER  14,  —  We  have  given  up  Tiddle- 
dy-winks  entirely.  Father  says  it  does  not 
stand  the  test  of  time. 

NOVEMBER  27.  -  -  My  aim  is  to  write  in  my 
diary  only  such  things  as  will  be  of  interest 
in  the  years  to  come.  Then,  sitting  evenings 
before  the  ruddy  fire,  with  my  little  ones 
about  my  knee,  I  shall  read  aloud  to  them 
what  their  mother  did  and  thought  when  she 
too  was  young.  Ah,  yes!  when  she  was  young! 
Many  a  time  will  she  sigh  then  for  the  girl- 
hood days,  and  as  she  thinks  of  them  the  tears 
of  memory  will  flow,  I  ween.  Ah,  well! 


[163] 


XI 

QUESTIONS 

IT  was  one  of  those  winter  evenings  when 
the  snow  and  moonlight  outshine  the  blaze 
upon  the  brightest  hearth,  that  Mr.  Larry, 
leaving  his  register  far  behind  him,  strolled 
aimlessly  through  the  quiet  streets,  smoking 
and  communing  with  himself,  till  turning 
corners  he  was  suddenly  aware  that  the  pro- 
fessor's house  stood  just  before  him.  It  is  a 
phenomenon  frequent  enough  in  single  men, 
that  in  their  evening  rambles  in  a  lonely  world, 
however  absent  their  minds  may  be,  however 
whimsically  their  thoughts  may  turn  or  twist 
or  mount  bachelor-wise  to  a  high  contempt  for 
the  heavy  ox-like  domesticity  of  their  fellows, 
their  steps  —  unconsciously  enough,  no  doubt 
-  will  trend  inevitably  to  the  nearest  fireside 
where  a  man  of  family  will  make  them  welcome. 
Thus  Mr.  Larry,  rising  from  Mrs.  Withers's 
table  and  asking  "What  shall  I  do  to-night?" 
might  remind  himself  that  he  had  been  at  the 
June's  three  times  in  a  fortnight  and  that  to  go 
[164] 


QUESTIONS 


again  would  be  presumption,  yet  once  on  his 
legs,  as  we  have  seen  —  poor  pendent,  servile 
creatures  though  they  are  —  they  lead  him  by 
devious  paths  and  imperceptible  degrees  to  the 
very  house  he  has  resolved  to  shun.  Strange 
accident,  that  the  snow  and  moonlight  should 
be  always  fairest  in  this  one  direction  from 
Mrs.  Withers's!  And  it  may  well  be  won- 
dered how  Mr.  Larry  had  managed  with  all 
those  other  evenings  of  other  years  that  now 
he  should  find  it  so  passing  difficult  to  avoid 
the  Junes. 

Once  there,  there  was  no  alternative.  Mr. 
Larry  went  in:  he  was  "just  going  by;"  in  fact, 
had  but  stopped  "a  moment  to  inquire" 
and  inquired  till  ten.  It  was  a  mild  research, 
one  interlocutor  stretched  out  easily  in  the 
professor's  chair  before  one  of  those  "ruddy 
fires"  of  Katrina's  diary,  the  other,  the  diarist 
herself,  seated  near  in  a  small  cane  rocker  with 
embroidery  in  her  hands.  The  professor 
meanwhile  was  conducting  an  inquiry  of  his 
own  in  the  domain  of  letters;  he  was  teaching 
newsboys  in  an  evening  school. 

"I'm  glad  you  came,"  Katrina  said.     "I 
have  something  very  important  to  tell  you. 
[165] 


KA TRIN  A 

Father  thinks  he  has  found  just  the  man  to 
help  him  with  his  book  —  a  Mr.  Mackintosh. 
He's  a  new  member  of  the  school-board,  and 
so  interested." 

"Indeed?"  said  Mr.  Larry.  He  was  be- 
coming used  to  these  forlorn  hopes,  and  he 
knew  Mackintosh.  ;'Your  father  is  quite 
elated,  I  suppose." 

"Well  — yes,"  Katrina  admitted,  "but 
father  isn't  quite  the  same  any  more.  Why, 
he  used  to  be  like  a  boy.  He'd  come  home 
smiling  and  full  of  fun,  and  say  that  this  time 
he  felt  it  in  his  bones  that  they'd  take  the  his- 
tory; but  now  - 

Katrina  paused. 

"  Well,  he  smiles  of  course  —  father  al- 
ways smiles  —  but  he's  very  quiet  about  it; 
and  to-night  when  he  told  me  about  Mr. 
Mackintosh,  I  said  to  him,  'But  father, 
you  don't  seem  excited  at  all.'  And  he 
said  'Excited?  why  should  I  feel  excited?' 
And  I  said,  'Well,  you  used  to.  You  used 
to  feel  things  in  your  bones,  don't  you  re- 
member ? ' ' 

"And  what  did  he  say  to  that?"  asked  Mr. 
Larry. 

[166] 


QUESTIONS 


"  He  didn't  say  anything.  He  just  laughed 
a  little,  that  was  all." 

She  was  silent  a  moment. 

"Father  must  have  been  very  happy  when 
he  was  young." 

"  What  makes  you  think  so  ?" 

"  Well,  Aunt  Miranda  said,  before  she  died, 
that  he  wasn't  at  all  like  the  other  young  men 
that  she  and  mother  knew  when  they  were 
girls.  She  said  that  he  was  so  enthusiastic 
that  he  never  used  to  sit  back  in  a  chair  at  all; 
but  always  on  the  edge  of  it;  and  he  had  the 
loveliest,  the  most  philosophical  way  of  talk- 
ing, she  said." 

"He  must  have  been  a  very  charming 
fellow,"  Mr.  Larry  observed. 

"  Oh,  he  was,"  Katrina  assured  him.  "  I 
should  like  to  have  seen  father  then  —  sitting 
on  the  edge  of  his  chair,  and  mother  so  quiet, 
listening,  and  all.  Now  — 

She  paused  reflectively. 

"He  sits  way  back  in  his  chair  now." 

"The  chair-edge  is  for  youth,  my  dear," 
Mr.  Larry  said,  settling  himself  more  com- 
fortably   among   the    cushions.     "Time    was 
when  a  fence  rail  was  soft  enough," 
[167] 


KA TRIN  A 


"  Did  you  ever  sit  on  the  edge  of  your  chair, 
Mr.  Larry?" 

"Very  likely." 

"And  wave  your  hands?  Father  used  to 
wave  his  hands,  Aunt  Miranda  said." 

"Um;  well,  I  don't  remember  waving  my 
hands  exactly;  I  may  have  done  so.  They 
were  not,  however,  what  you  might  call  well- 
calculated  for  aerial  performances;  though 
they  would  have  lent  weight  no  doubt  to  my 
argument." 

"And  father,"  said  Katrina,  "used  to  quote 
beautifully.  Did  you  ever  quote  ?  " 

Mr.  Larry  considered. 

"Upon  occasion." 

"Father,"  she  continued,  "was  especially 
fond  of  poetry.  He  liked  good  novels  too  - 
standard  novels;  that  is,  some  standard 
novels;  he  never  could  bear  one  to  end  un- 
happily. So  he  always  read  the  last  page 
first,  to  see." 

"That  was  because  he  was  tender-hearted," 
Mr.  Larry  remarked. 

;<  Yes,  and  because  he  was  so  hopeful,  Aunt 
Miranda  said.     Oh,  he  had  no  patience  at 
all    with    whiney    people.     He    hasn't    now. 
[168] 


QUESTIONS 


Life  is  what  you  make  it,  father  says,  and 
dreams  do  come  true." 

"  Do  they  ?"  Mr.  Larry  asked. 

"Why,  yes  —  of  course,"  Katrina  replied, 
astonished.  "Father  says  so."  She  was  very 
talkative  to-night  and  there  was  little  need 
on  Mr.  Larry's  part  for  anything  but  the 
merest  acknowledgment  of  what  she  prattled, 
so  that  by  and  by,  perhaps  through  drowsiness, 
due  to  the  pleasant  warmth  and  to  the  sooth- 
ing murmurings  of  that  soft  young  voice,  his 
replies  became  vague  and  curious,  so  strange 
sometimes  that  she  began  to  wander  if  he 
spoke  them  waking  or  in  a  dream.  She  had  ex- 
pressed a  hope  for  an  early,  a  very  early  spring. 

"Ah,  yes,"  was  his  reply,  "but  such  springs 
are  death  to  the  fruit  crop." 

She  raised  her  eyes  from  her  embroidery. 
Fruit  crop  ?  Did  the  man  think  he  was  on 
a  farm  ? 

"An  early  spring?"  she  inquired  audibly. 

"Why,  yes,"  was  his  answer.  "An  early 
spring  tempts  out  the  buds  too  soon  and  the 
frost  nips  them." 

"Winter   in   the  country,"   she   remarked, 
"must  be  dreadfully  dreary." 
[169] 


KA TRINA 


"Not  at  all,"  he  replied.  ''You  toast  your 
heels  and  write  then." 

"Write?" 

;' Yes.     It's  a  bully  time  to  write  novels." 

"  Farmers  don't  write  novels." 

"They're  fools  if  they  don't,"  remarked  Mr. 
Larry.  "They  have  a  fine  annual  oppor- 
tunity." 

"I  never  heard  of  a  farmer  writing  novels," 
Katrina  protested. 

"Blackmore  was  a  gardener,"  he  recalled. 
"  He  grew  pears  on  a  wall.  I  always  wanted 
to  do  that:  grow  pears  on  a  wall  summers  and 
write  Lorna  Doones  winters." 

Katrina  smiled. 

"Did  you  really?" 

"Sure." 

"But  I  never  heard  of  growing  pears  on  a 
wall." 

"Didn't  you?  It's  not  customary  in  this 
country,  I  believe,  but  they  do  it  elsewhere." 

"Why  didn't  you?"  Katrina  asked.  "I 
think  it  would  have  been  lovely." 

"So  it  would,"  he  assented;  "but  we  can't 
do   everything   in   this   world.     We   have   to 
leave  something  for  Heaven." 
[170] 


QUESTIONS 


Katrina  looked  grave.  She  was  not  quite 
certain  that  it  was  proper  to  speak  of  garden- 
ing in  Heaven  —  or  worse,  of  writing  novels 
there  —  though  the  picture  his  words  had 
conjured  up  to  her  of  pears  ripening  upon  a 
wall  seemed  fairly  blissful  by  contrast  with 
the  wintry  weather  out  of  doors. 

"Pears,"  she  remarked,  "are  my  favorite 
fruit,  next  to  strawberries." 

"  So  ?  I  had  it  in  mind  to  grow  them  for  you, 
my  dear  Katrina." 

"For  me!" 

"For  you." 

"But  you  didn't  know  me  then." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  did,"  was  the  calm  rejoinder." 

"But  I  wasn't  born  then  —  was  I?" 

"No  matter." 

She  gazed  dumfounded  at  the  profile  we 
have  watched  before.  There  was  no  smile 
there. 

"But  it  sounds  so  foolish,  Mr.  Larry." 

"Truth  often  does." 

"But  how  could  you  have  known  me  when 
I  —  when  I  wasn't  ?" 

"I  imagined  you." 

"Oh  ...  but  not  really  me!" 
[  171 1 


KA T  RIN  A 


'You." 

"Just  as  I  am?" 

"Just." 

"But,"  said  the  child,  "gray  eyes  and  all?" 

"Brown  hair  too." 

"  But  not  my  name!"  she  cried  triumphantly. 

Mr.  Larry  hesitated. 
'  Yes,  your  name." 

" Katrina  June?" 

"Well,  no,"  he  confessed.     "But  I  knew  it 
would  be  Katrina." 

"But  not  June?" 

"No,  I  didn't  know  it  would  be  June." 

Katrina  was  silent.     She  had  a  creepy  feel- 
ing, and  she  rather  wished  that  he  would  smile. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Larry,  are  you  a  —  medium?" 

"Good  Lord,  no!"  cried  Mr.  Larry. 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  glad,"  the  child  replied,  sighing. 
"  If  you  had  been—" 

She  laughed  nervously. 

"What  would  you  have  done?"  he  asked. 

"I    should    have   hidden,"    she    confessed. 
"I'm  afraid  of  mediums." 

"Did  you  ever  see  one?" 

"No,   but  I   shouldn't  want  one  rapping 
around." 

[172] 


QUESTIONS 


Katrina  shuddered. 

"  No  more  would  I,"  quoth  Mr.  Larry,  light- 
ing another  cigarette.  The  match  had  a  cheer- 
ful sound,  but  Katrina  did  not  speak;  at  least 
not  at  once,  and  only  after  a  long  and  curious 
scrutiny  of  Mr.  Larry's  face.  Then  she  asked 
softly : 

'"Did  you  use  a  planchette?  " 

"No.     Why?" 

"Why  to  find  out  my  name." 

"Oh,  no,"  he  replied.     "I  just  guessed  it." 

"If  you  had  used  a  planchette,"  she  told 
him  gravely,  "  you  would  have  learned  my  full 
name,  June  and  all!  " 

"I  didn't  know,"  she  said  again,  "that  you 
liked  the  country." 

"  It  is  rather  singular,  I  believe,  in  a  farmer's 
son,"  Mr.  Larry  replied.  "I'm  not  at  all  sure 
I  should  like  it  now." 

"  The  pear  plan,"  Katrina  began  admiringly, 
but  he  interrupted  her. 

"  You  mustn't  take  it  too  seriously,  my  dear, 
I  spoke  figuratively;  though  I  really  did  have 
a  notion  once  of  taking  a  cottage  in  the  country 
and  making  my  living  by  writing  books.  It 
was  a  young  man's  nonsense." 
[173] 


KA TRIN  A 


"And  why  didn't  you  ?"  Katrina  inquired. 

"  Well,  it  depended  on  other  things,  and  they 
didn't  come  true,  so  I  - 

"I  see,"  said  Katrina,  sighing  sympatheti- 
cally. "It  all  depends  in  this  life,  doesn't  it  ?" 

"I  believe  it  does,"  Mr.  Larry  replied. 

"I've  always  noticed  it,"  she  went  on,  adding 
more  cheerfully,  "but  father  says  it  is  never 
too  late  to  mend." 

"  Dear,  dear,  yes,"  Mr.  Larry  mused.  "  I 
think  I  can  hear  your  father  saying  that  now." 

"You  might  still  do  it,  you  know,"  Katrina 
observed. 

"Do  what?" 

"  Grow  pears  on  a  wall." 

But  he  shook  his  head. 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  —  I  have  lost  my  taste 
for  them." 

"  Well,  any  way,  you  might  write  a  book." 

"That  too,"  Mr.  Larry  replied,  "means 
nothing  to  me  now." 

Katrina  seemed  shocked.  Not  to  want  to 
grow  pears  on  a  wall  was  one  thing;  but 
shades  of  Jane  Austen! —  not  to  want  to  write 
a  book! 

"I  should  think,"  she  said,  slowly  and  with 
[174] 


QUESTIONS 


just  a  touch  of  reproachfulness  in  her  tones, 
"that  if  a  person  wanted  to  do  something  - 
that  is,  something  very  noble,  of  course  —  and 
wanted  to  do  it  very  much,  he  would  always 
want  to  do  it." 

Mr.  Larry  did  not  instantly  reply,  so  she 
shut  her  lips  firmly  with  an  "/  would." 

"Would  you?"  he  inquired. 

"Father  says  one  should  persevere." 

"I  know,"  said  Mr.  Larry;  "but  as  I  inti- 
mated before,  some  things  are  like  candy; 
you  lose  your  taste  for  it  as  you  grow  older." 

"Oh,  do  you?"  she  inquired,  incredulously. 

"I  fear,"  Mr.  Larry  remarked  drily,"  that 
my  illustration  was  not  well  chosen." 

"But  to  write  a  novel,"  Katrina  resumed, 
"  I  should  think  that  would  be  different." 

"It  would  seem  so,"  he  admitted;  "but  I 
assure  you  that  although  it  is  the  one  dream 
left  to  me  —  the  one  old  dream  possible  of 
realization,  I  mean  —  this  pear-and-novel  or- 
chard plan  —  I  haven't  the  heart  for  it." 

Katrina  laid  down  her  embroidery.  There 
was  a  sudden  illumination  in  her  face. 

"I  know,"  she  said.  "It's  because  you're 
a  bachelor." 

[175] 


KATRIN  A 


Mr.  Larry  stared. 

"  Yes,"  she  repeated  firmly,  "  because  you're 
a  bachelor.  Bachelors  so  seldom  amount  to 
anything." 

Mr.  Larry  looked  unutterable  things. 

"At  least,"  Katrina  hastened  to  explain, 
"most  bachelors  —  seldom  do.  Mrs.  Gaylor 
says  —  she's  woman's  rights,  you  know  —  that 
half  the  great  men  are  so  because  of  their 
wives." 

Mr.  Larry  recovered  speech. 

"A  most  remarkable  statement,"  said  he. 
"  I  wonder  if  it's  true." 

"  Mrs.  Gaylor  says  so." 

"  Oh,  well,  in  that  case,"  Mr.  Larry  began 
resignedly,  when  Katrina  interposed  in  tri- 
umph: 

"So  you  see  if  you  had  been  married,  you 
might  have  grown  the  pears  and  written  the 
novel  and  —  everything." 

"True,"  he  replied.  "I  guess  you're  right, 
Katrina." 

"I  didn't  mean,  of  course,"  Katrina  ex- 
plained, "  that  you  didn't  amount  to  anything, 
Mr.  Larry.  What  I  meant  was  that  if  you 
had  had  a  wife,  you  - 

[  176  ]      ** 


QUESTIONS 


It  was  a  struggle  but  she  managed  it. 

"  —  you  might  have  amounted  to  even  more 
than  you  do  —  don't  you  see  ?" 

"I  see." 

"Oh,  I  have  the  greatest  sympathy  with 
bachelors,"  she  declared. 

"You  have?     Why?" 

She  hesitated,  and  her  face  flushed. 

"  Well,  she  explained,  "  it  must  be  very  try- 
ing, I  think  —  of  course  I  don't  know,  but  I 
should  think  it  would  be  —  to  be  disappointed 
-  in  love." 

"And  are  all  bachelors,"  Mr.  Larry  in- 
quired, persons  who  —  who  have  been  dis- 
appointed —  in  love  ?" 

"  Why,  of  course,"  she  replied.  "  Else  they 
wouldn't  be  bachelors!" 

"Really,"  he  said,  "that  sounds  very  plau- 
sible." 

"Oh,  I  thought  everybody  knew  that," 
Katrina  assured  him.  "Why  suppose  mother 
hadn't  married  father:  well  then,  don't  you 
see?--  " 

"When  you  put  it  that  way,"  Mr.  Larry 
began  slowly,  but  did  not  finish ;  yet  he  seemed 
convinced. 

[177] 


KA TRIN  A 


"And  to  know,"  Katrina  went  on,  "that 
you  had  made  a  man  be  a  bachelor  —  well, 
that's  almost  as  bad  as  being  one,  I  should 
think.  Oh,  I  shouldn't  like  that  at  all." 

;'  Yet  in  some  instances,"  Mr.  Larry  replied, 
"it  is  unavoidable,  and  even  advisable,  I  sup- 
pose." 

"/  couldn't  bear  it,"  declared  Katrina.  "I 
should  feel  positively  guilty." 

"Should  you?" 

"Oh,  yes;  it  would  be  dreadful.  And  not 
to  have  taken  you,  Mr.  Larry!  Fancy!" 

Her  face  was  eloquent.  He  seemed  much 
gratified,  but  uneasy  in  his  chair. 

"  You  are  most  sympathetic,"  he  said;  "but 
I  never  was  what  you  would  call  a  'ladies' 


man.' 


'Yet  you  are  kind-hearted,"  she  consoled 
him;  but  he  shook  his  head,  and  so  dubiously 
withal  that  her  whole  heart  surged  to  him. 

"  Oh,  I  can't  understand  how  any  one  could 
have  had  the  heart  to  —  not  to  - 

"Ah,  well,"  Mr.  Larry  interposed  hastily, 
"in  my  case  it  was  a  little  unusual,  I  fancy. 
You  see  when  I  got  to  the  lady,  why  —  she 
wasn't  there." 

[178] 


QUESTIONS 


"Where  had  she  gone?" 

Mr.  Larry  shook  his  head,  and  rose  sud- 
denly as  if  for  departure.  But  Katrina  did 
not  leave  her  seat. 

"Was  she  light  or  dark?" 

At  that  Mr.  Larry  smiled. 

"Medium,  I  should  say." 

"Were  her  eyes  greenish?" 

"Dear  no;  they  were  gray,  I  believe.  But 
why  '  greenish  ? ' ' 

"Because  you  should  always  be  careful  if 
eyes  are  greenish." 

"They  were  not  greenish." 

;<  You  mustn't  think  me  curious,  Mr.  Larry 

»» 

"Oh,  not  at  all,  my  dear;  not  at  all." 

"I  was  just  wondering,  that  was  all." 

"  Sure,"  Mr.  Larry  remarked,  taking  up  his 
coat.  "The  most  natural  thing  in  the  world, 
my  dear." 

But  Katrina  still  sat,  spell-bound,  in  her 
chair. 

"And  her  hair,"  she  asked,  "what  color 
was  that,  Mr.  Larry  ?" 

"  Like  yours,"  he  said. 

Katrina  gasped. 

[179] 


KA TRINA 


"Why,  that"  she  cried,  "was  how  you 
knew- 

"Howl  knew  what?" 

She  hesitated. 

"  Why  —  don't  you  see  ?  —  how  you 
imagined  me!" 

"  Still,"  she  added  with  a  tinge  of  disappoint- 
ment in  her  voice,  "that  doesn't  explain  how 
you  knew  what  my  name  would  be." 

But  she  rose  suddenly  and  came  toward  him 
with  a  little  cry  of  delight. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Larry!  —  was  her  name  Ka- 
trina?" 

"My  child,"  he  said,  taking  her  hands  be- 
tween his  own,  "Katrina  was  always  —  al- 
ways —  my  favorite  name." 


[180] 


XII 

AN    EPILOGUE 

IT  had  been  a  matter  of  wonder  to  McRae 
how  calmly  the  professor  had  borne  his  dis- 
appointments, as  after  each  rejection  of  his 
precious  history,  or  each  refusal  to  reconsider 
it,  he  had  laid  the  red  volume  in  a  convenient 
drawer  of  his  walnut  desk,  to  begin  anew 
in  some  other  quarter  of  the  board,  in  the 
office  of  some  newly  elected  member  seeking  a 
cause  to  champion,  less  for  its  own  sake  than 
for  an  opportunity  to  display  his  zeal  and  elo- 
quence in  behalf  of  Progress  and  Enlightenment. 
McRae  had  waited  with  some  apprehensiveness 
for  that  hour  when  the  professor's  eyes  should 
open  to  the  fond  illusion  he  had  cherished ;  and 
as  time  went  by  and  the  fame  of  that  dream  had 
grown  familiar  to  men's  ears,  so  that  they  smiled 
at  it,  or  scoffed,  or  feigned  more  pressing  cares  at 
the  professor's  courteous  approach,  while  the 
very  office  boys  tittered  at  the  noble-looking  little 
gentleman  waiting  their  summons  in  the  ante- 
room with  his  small  red  volume  in  his  hands, 
[181] 


KA T  RI N  A 


McRae's  heart  swelled  with  an  indignant  pity 
and  with  admiration  for  his  undaunted  friend, 
He  heard  now  and  then  stories  of  an  "old 
gentleman"  styled  variously  "codger,"  "beg- 
gar," even  "fool,"  and  had  taken  some  pains 
to  dispel  those  epithets.  Twice  or  thrice  he 
himself  had  discovered  the  historian  in  those 
office  vigils,  and  had  seen  how  the  shabby, 
well-brushed  suit  he  wore,  which  at  home 
matched  his  old  walnut  desk  so  perfectly  as 
scarcely  to  be  noted  in  the  general  autumnal 
tone  of  things,  there  by  the  polished  furniture 
of  those  petty  courts  scarcely  befitted  the 
ambassador  of  such  shining  hopes. 

Watching  the  professor  as  time  went  on  Mr. 
Larry  wondered  sometimes  if  that  steady 
cheerfulness  was  as  genuine  as  it  appeared 
to  be.  That  his  dream  was  fading,  or  could 
ever  fade,  it  would  perhaps  be  a  part  of  the 
professor's  philosophy  to  deny;  yet  if  he  talked 
less  of  it  than  before  and  grew  more  silent  on 
other  themes  as  well,  till  Katrina  complained 
affectionately  of  having  to  repeat  her  questions, 
and  Mr.  Larry  declared  that  her  father  was 
growing  deaf,  still  the  same  smile  hovered 
about  the  professor's  lips  as  he  watched  his 
[182] 


AN    EPILOGUE 


daughter  or  listened  to  the  drolleries  of  that 
"fellow  of  infinite  cigarettes."  Was  he  still 
the  optimist  he  had  been  wont  to  call  himself, 
Mr.  Larry  mused,  or  had  that  child-like  trust 
in  the  charity  and  benevolence  of  his  fellow- 
creatures  given  way  to  a  sounder  faith  which 
seeks  within  rather  than  without,  and  finding 
serenity  in  that  fountain  of  eternal  youth  men 
call  the  soul,  cares  nothing  for  earth's  tinsel 
crowns  ?  Had  he  found  that  peace,  Mr.  Larry 
wondered,  or  had  a  cheerful  manner  become 
a  habit  with  him,  not  to  be  altered  by  the 
world's  indifference  or  contempt  ?  Or  was  it 
Pride  that  kept  him  loyal  to  an  old  ideal,  even 
when  Time  had  all  but  shattered  every  fond 
remaining  hope  of  it  ?  —  Pride  which  denied 
what  its  very  eyes  beheld,  which  refused 
utterly  to  own  itself  mistaken,  or  admit  defeat  ? 
With  the  professor's  growing  silence  and 
absent-mindedness  there  was  that  in  his  face 
sometimes,  despite  its  smiling,  which  bespoke 
resignation  rather  than  content,  though  he 
said  nothing  of  abandoned  plans.  Nor  did 
McRae  question  him,  or  ever  refer  either  to  the 
history  or  the  prospects  of  its  usefulness,  feel- 
ing in  its  author's  reticence  a  hint  of  a  desire 
[183] 


KA TRIN  A 


to  be  alone  with  it  and  with  that  precious 
past  to  which  the  dream  of  it  belonged.  In 
conversation  the  professor  carefully  avoided 
argument,  so  that  his  friend's  philosophy, 
disgruntled  or  whimsical  though  it  sometimes 
was,  passed  unchallenged  save  by  Katrina's 
grave  reproachfulness  or  wondering  smiles. 

Without  Katrina  the  editor's  calls  might 
have  been  dull  indeed.  There  was  no  sub- 
ject, however  erudite,  that  did  not  require  the 
counsel  of  her  dear  young  mind  for  its  solution, 
for  Katrina  was  in  Latin  now,  and  French, 
and  Algebra  —  a  slender  school  girl,  so  fresh 
and  lovely  in  that  sweet  gravity  which  had 
aroused  her  father's  qualms,  that  merely  to 
hear  her  pronounce  her  upright  judgments  on 
an  erring  world,  Mr.  Larry  declared,  would 
shame  the  Shylock  in  any  man.  Portia,  he 
called  her,  and  the  two  men  listened  to  her 
tender  eloquence  with  a  seriousness  not  alto- 
gether feigned,  they  were  so  charmed  and 
proud.  Their  joy  in  her  was  sufficient  ground 
for  their  continued  friendship,  even  if  her  love 
for  them  had  not  bound  them  by  another  tie. 
One  she  admired,  as  only  schoolgirls  can 
admire:  is  it  not  heroic  to  be  an  editor  and 
[184] 


AN    EPILOGUE 


address  a  world  ?  The  other  she  loved,  though 
not  for  his  world,  keeping  her  faith  in  him  and 
in  his  hopes  as  loyally  as  the  other  Katrina 
had  done  before  her.  That  men  could  fail  to 
observe  what  a  gentle  heart  he  had,  or  neglect 
to  honor  it,  seemed  passing  strange  to  her; 
that  they  could  examine  that  beautiful  book 
which  he  had  written  and  not  be  moved  by  its 
grace  and  eloquence  was  quite  inexplicable, 
although  she  knew  vaguely  that  there  were 
wicked,  odious  men  down  town  —  fat  and 
red-faced,  she  sometimes  fancied  them,  in  her 
maiden  abhorrence  of  all  mere  grossness  and 
because  that  would  least  resemble  the  men 
she  loved  —  sports  and  tavern-keepers,  doubt- 
less such  men  would  be,  gambling  and  drink- 
ing men,  and  Heaven  knows  whom  beside  in 
shadowy  pursuits,  scoffing  at  God,  taking  His 
name  in  vain  and  loving  not  brethren  who 
kept  His  law.  Such  in  her  innocence  she 
imagined  were  her  father's  enemies,  till  all 
mere  burliness,  all  short,  thick  neckedness,  and 
tendency  to  what  Mr.  Larry  called  heavy 
digestiveness,  aroused  suspicion  in  her  tender 
soul. 

That  "human  circle"  to  which  Katrina  had 
[185] 


KA TRIN  A 


referred  so  tenderly  in  her  diary  was  not  only 
still  unbroken,  as  she  had  said,  but  was  larger 
now  since  Mr.  Larry  had  become  a  segment; 
and  with  his  frequent  presence,  evenings  and 
Sundays,  some  of  the  household's  older  cus- 
toms passed  away.  That  harmless  after- 
dinner  pastime,  for  example,  which  even  the 
joys  of  Tiddle-dy-winks  could  not  displace, 
had  now  been  relegated  to  those  other  days 
when  father  and  daughter  had  passed  their 
evenings  alone  together;  that  magic-lantern 
no  longer  tutored  her  in  antique  art;  she  and 
her  father  no  longer  went  hand  in  hand  to 
see  Mr.  Joffett  and  his  mummies.  Katrina 
had  her  high  school  friends,  and  there  were 
birthday  parties  for  recreation,  and  of  a  Sunday 
evening,  meetings  for  praise  and  prayer  to 
lead  her  thoughts  not  only  heavenward  but 
into  heathen  wilds,  and  to  make  her  feel  some- 
times that  after  all  to  be  a  missionary  would 
be  far  more  satisfying  to  an  earnest  soul  like 
hers  than  to  be  an  Austin.  But  home  again 
with  Persuasion  in  her  hand,  watching  with 
Anne  "the  flowing  of  the  tide,"  she  would  be 
more  doubtful.  To  be  a  Jane  Austen  and 
write  what  would  move  girls  so  —  even  a  girl 
[186] 


who  felt  some  inclination  to  be  a  missionary! 

-  was  not  that   a  worthy,   even  an  exalted 
cause  ?     Indeed,  might  she  not  do  more  good 
in  the  world  as  a  famous  authoress  than  as  a 
teacher  of  chocolate-colored  Sabbath  schools  ? 

-  and  where  there  were  snakes  and  spiders 
crawling  around  ?     It  was  a  hard  question,  one 
that  most  girls  must  face  sooner  or  later,  and 
quite  alone,  since  older  counsellors,  maids  as 
well  as  lads  discover,  are  prone  to  view  life 
in  a  gray  twilight  and  with   little   sight   left 
for   morn's   rosy   hopes.     Perhaps    a   mother 
might  have  listened  helpfully,  Katrina  thought. 
Had  he  smiled  less  indulgently,  and  a  little 
more  warmly,  upon  her  tentative  girlish  con- 
fidences,   Professor   June   might    have   heard 
more  —  more  than  he  dreamed  of  —  of  what 
lay  nearest  his  daughter's  soul.     What  was  he 
busy  with  that  he  scarcely  seemed  to  hear  at 
all  ?     Even  when  he  gazed  most  fondly  upon 
her  eager  face,  or  stroked  her  hair,  while  she 
prattled  on  to  him  of  school  or  housework  or 
the  books  she  read,  or  the  friends  she  was 
making,  his  mind  was  elsewhere.     Had  he  not 
had  a  lifetime  for  his  own  high  hopes  and  plans 
that  he  could  not  listen  to  another's  now  ?  — 

[187] 


KA TRIN  A 


that  other  his  flesh  and  blood,  and  that  other's 
dreams  mist  of  his  mists,  and  no  less  rosy  than 
his  own  had  risen  in  his  morning's  sun.  Or 
was  he  busy  with  that  morning  still?  Were 
its  vapors  lovely  to  look  back  upon?  Are 
memories  but  inverted  dreams? 

It  was  to  her  diary  that  Katrina  turned  for 
that  confessional  which  youth  must  have,  and 
to  Betty  Wendell,  her  bosom  friend,  and  to 
Mr.  Larry,  whose  youth,  he  said,  still  tagged 
him  sometimes,  despite  gray  hairs.  It  was 
from  the  editor  that  the  professor  first  learned 
of  the  missionary  dream,  and  of  its  struggle 
with  that  Persuasion  of  another  sort  which  Mr. 
Larry  vowed  was  bound  to  win  -  "  not 
through  any  lack  of  saintliness  on  Katrina's 
part,  but  because  that  Austen  woman  is  so 
darned  human,"  as  he  averred.  Whether  the 
professor  felt  any  pang  that  Katrina  had 
chosen  another  confidant,  only  a  father  who 
has  seen  his  child's  heart  through  another's 
eyes  can  say.  That  he  was  even  aware  of  her 
slight  defection,  or  that  being  so  he  would  have 
thought  it  significant  or  strange,  or  himself  in 
any  wise  responsible,  is  a  doubtful  question. 
He  merely  smiled. 

[188] 


AN    EPILOGUE 


The  fears  which  Katrina's  gravity  had  once 
aroused  in  Professor  June,  and  which  brought 
Mr.  Larry  to  that  midnight  rescue,  had 
passed  utterly,  partly  through  their  own 
groundlessness,  partly  because  the  editor  had 
come  to  share  in  no  trivial  measure  that  re- 
sponsibility which  the  father  in  a  sudden  panic- 
stricken  vision  of  its  significance,  had 
trembled  to  bear  alone.  From  that  hour  when 
the  bachelor  discovered  Katrina  in  her  scarlet 
slumber  robe,  he  had  watched  her  gravely  as 
a  second  father,  smiling  to  himself  —  but  only 
to  himself  —  at  her  fair,  ingenuous  outlook 
upon  a  world  which  he  saw  so  differently; 
and  so,  and  not  without  aid  from  that  very 
contrast,  coming  to  love  her  almost  as  his 
very  own.  And  she  was  his  own,  he  used  to 
declare  to  her,  to  see  her  blush  —  by  what  he 
called  "  step-heredity,"  pointing  out  to  her  how 
undeniable  it  was  that  she  had  inherited  (from 
whom  but  him  ?)  that  inconspicuous  but  signifi- 
cant little  mole,  a  mere  brown  dot  upon  her 
nose!  It  was  indisputable  as  he  had  said: 
the  moles  were  there,  one  his,  one  hers,  and 
identical  as  all  the  world  could  see.  With 
such  absurdities  did  Mr.  Larry  give  Katrina 
[189] 


KA TRIN  A 


a  daughter's  portion  of  his  whimsical  but 
tender  sympathy,  and  so  naturally,  so  imper- 
ceptibly was  this  younger  fatherhood  estab- 
lished, so  contentedly  did  the  professor  observe 
Katrina  growing  in  grace  and  fairness  to  be 
like  her  mother,  so  quietly,  so  smilingly  did 
he  then  withdraw  to  a  kind  of  benevolent 
grandfatherly  acquiescence  in  that  sturdier 
youth-like  comradeship  between  his  daughter 
and  his  friend,  that  she  never  realized,  nor  did 
he  apparently,  that  with  her  childhood  more 
than  mere  cribbage-games  had  passed  away. 

Like  old  men  smoking  at  their  children's 
hearths,  or  dozing  by  kitchen  doorways  in  the 
sun,  the  professor  gradually  effaced  himself, 
becoming  as  it  were  a  silent  partner  in  those 
cheerful  enterprises  of  Katrina's  youth.  Mr. 
Larry  too  was  an  oldish  fellow  now,  but  in 
experience,  not  in  heart,  and  was  growing 
young  again.  And  the  Herald  grew  younger! 
—  in  that  inner  corner  called  "  Cap  and  Bells." 
A  maid  appeared  there,  a  child  named  Delia, 
demure  and  innocent,  who  spoke  sweet  lines. 
Were  Mr.  Larry  in  a  melting  mood  some  morn- 
ing, did  he  turn  poet,  or  had  his  humor  a 
something  in  it  too  tender  for  a  clown  to  say, 
[190] 


AN    EPILOGUE 


it  was  Delia  speaking  —  as  "Delia  says,"  or 
thus  and  so  "observed  my  Delia,"  or  "Delia's 
eyes  brightened  as  she  told  me."  Sometimes 
she  was  "the  girl,  Delia,"  or  "the  fair  Delia," 
or  "that  child,  Delia;"  or,  if  the  jester  would 
mock  a  little  at  the  bloom  on  those  words  which 
he  made  her  say,  as  if  ashamed  of  them  even 
in  hiding,  he  would  call  her  "that  silly  young 
thing  named  Delia;"  and  the  very  next  morn- 
ing, doubtless,  coax  and  wheedle  her  with 
"sweet  Delia,  without  whom  there'd  be  no 
music  in  these  tinkling  bells." 

Her  sayings  were  copied  far  and  wide. 
The  Sun  had  them;  Life  gave  a  corner  to 
"Cousin  Delia." 

"I  see,"  wrote  the  Old  Subscriber  to  the 
Herald,  "you  have  revived  Cordelia,  whose 
charming  sayings  I  remember  smiling  at  years 
ago  in  your  'Cap  and  Bells.'  But  now,  I 
notice  you  call  her  Delia.  I  wonder,  can  she 
be  the  same?  Cordelia,  surely,  is  a  girl  no 
longer.  Perhaps  this  Delia  is  a  daughter  of 
our  former  friend.  If  so,  here's  health  to  her, 
for  she's  like  her  mother  to  a  T." 

"I  turned  to  Delia,"  the  jester  reported  in 
"Cap  and  Bells."  "'What  is  youth,  my 
[191] 


KA TRIN  A 


child?'  *  Youth?'  she  inquired,  smiling  con- 
fidently. 'Why,  youth  is  being  young,  isn't 
it?'  *  Silly  Delia!'  said  I.  'We  all  know 
that.  But  what  is  youth  ? '  Delia  looked  grave. 
'Well,'  she  replied,  'it's  having  something  to 
look  forward  to,  I  suppose,  sir.'  Then  I 
gazed  at  those  full-blown  cheeks,  and  those 
eyes  fixed  wonderingly  upon  my  whitening  hair. 
Oh,  wise  young  Delia!" 

Had  the  optimist  nothing  to  look  forward  to 
that  he  was  forgetting  to  be  young  ?  So  many 
optimists  grow  old,  and  for  so  many  reasons,  it 
is  hard  to  say.  To  Mr.  Larry  with  his  eyes  on 
Katrina  it  seemed  preposterous  that  a  father 
should  ever  age,  though  afterwards  in  "Cap 
and  Bells"  we  find  him  reflecting  that  "all 
the  young  blossoms  God  stars  the  world  with 
are  insufficient  to  lure  men's  eyes  from  the 
withered  flowers  of  their  own  lost  May." 

However  difficult  bad  men  find  it  to  be 
forgotten,  however  surely  their  crimes  clap 
shackles  on  their  hands  at  last,  though  they 
flee  to  the  very  fox-holes  of  the  earth  for 
refuge,  that  self-effacement  which  they  seek  in 
vain,  for  good  men  is  an  easier  matter.  Silence 
with  no  demands  upon  a  busy  world,  soon 
[192] 


AN    EPILOGUE 


lets  them  out  of  it,  and  so  imperceptibly  that 
death  itself  is  a  graceful  thing.  Professor  June 
knocking  at  men's  doors  with  his  red  history 
in  his  hands  was  of  their  world;  successful  or 
not,  he  and  his  dream  were  part  and  parcel  of 
their  lives,  and  he  was  in  their  memories: 
"Old  June  called  again  to-day."  But  Pro- 
fessor June,  seated  silently  beside  his  hearth 
with  his  dream  relinquished,  with  its  scarlet 
symbol  locked  in  his  old  brown  desk,  was  a 
man  of  yesterday  before  Death  came  to  pro- 
claim him  so.  He  was  of  Katrina's  child- 
hood rather  than  her  youth,  so  that  her 
memories  of  him  are  mostly  of  his  cribb age- 
playing  days  when  he  still  had  something  to 
look  forward  to. 

To  Katrina  he  left  those  walls  where  the 
morning-glories  clung,  and  within  them  those 
few  possessions  which  had  come  to  him  mostly 
with  her  mother.  To  Mr.  Larry  he  left 
Katrina. 

In  an  old  scrap-book,  which  he  had  kept 
diligently  in  his  early  years,  they  found  on  its 
inner  cover  a  kind  of  motto  for  the  story  of 
his  life.  It  was  written  in  his  youth,  before 
his  marriage  —  a  challenge  to  the  future  — 
[193] 


KA TRIN  A 

glove  of  a  dreamer  hurled  valorously  in  the 
face  of  Time: 

'  They  sing  of  Youth,"  he  wrote  in  his  school- 
boy hand  '  -poets,  philosophers,  kings  and 
peasants  all  sigh  for  it  when  it  is  gone.  I  shall 
not  sigh.  I  shall  rejoice  in  that  wider  vision 
which  comes  only  to  man  matured.  The  child 
sees  but  the  grass-blades  that  he  seizes  in  his 
hand.  The  youth  sees  farther,  but  only  to  the 
brook  beyond.  For  man's  eyes  only  does  the 
landscape  spread  itself  in  its  full  glory  —  does 
life  stretch  out  into  boundless  vistas  to  that  far 
horizon  where  it  fades  into  the  mists  beyond. 
Why,  then,  do  men  sigh  for  youth's  petty 
vision  ?  No,  give  me  manhood  on  its  heights ! 
Let  me  feast  my  eyes  on  God's  wonder-world! 
Life  will  be  happier  then,  and  I  shall  be  younger 
in  its  twilight  than  in  its  dawn." 


[194] 


PART  II 


AGAINST   THE   MORROW 

Y  dear,"  said  Mr.  Larry,  taking  the 
young  Katrina's  hands  and  pressing 
them  gently  between  his  own,  "what  is  your 
plan?" 

She  cast  down  her  eyes,  and  when  she 
raised  them  again,  he  could  see  how  doubtful 
she  was  of  his  approval  and  how  difficult  it 
would  be  to  speak,  so  he  turned  his  back  upon 
her,  fumbling  with  a  cigarette  to  give  her 
time,  and  when  even  then  she  remained  silent 
he  began  to  walk,  slowly,  up  and  down  the 
study,  with  his  eyes  upon  the  ceiling,  upon  the 
curtains,  the  books,  the  carpet,  the  clouds 
of  tobacco  smoke  which  he  blew  industri- 
ously—  anywhere,  in  short,  save  on  Katrina, 
that  she  might  compose  herself.  Presently 
he  said  cheerfully,  "I  once  had  a  notion 
of  being  a  parson.  Would  you  believe 
it?"  The  bare  absurdity  of  Mr.  Larry 
in  the  pulpit  gave  her  courage  to  begin.  Her 
own  little  plan,  whatever  it  was,  now 
[197] 


KA TRIN  A 


seemed   more   reasonable,   more   talkable   at 
least. 

"Well,"  she  began,  "I'm  not  quite  old 
enough,  or  experienced  enough,  to  teach." 

She  paused. 

"And  I  can't  very  well  be  a  —  missionary, 
for  I  don't  think  it's  right  to  be  one,  just  to 
earn  your  living." 

"Certainly  not,"  observed  Mr.  Larry, 
promptly.  He  had  no  intention,  he  told  him- 
self, as  Katrina's  guardian,  of  permitting  the 
child  to  become  a  missionary.  Christianity, 
he  chose  to  believe,  at  least  in  this  instance, 
should  begin  at  home.  He  was  heathen 
enough. 

"And  beside,"  Katrina  remarked,  "I 
haven't  been  called." 

"That  was  my  trouble,"  said  Mr.  Larry, 
"in  the  ministry  matter.  I  listened  long 
enough,  but  I  didn't  hear  anything.  So  I 
came  away." 

"And  somehow,"  Katrina  went  on,  "I  don't 
incline  very  much  to  dressmaking." 

"Nor  I,"  he  replied. 

"Or  millinery  either,"  she  added. 

"Heavens,  no,   my  child." 
[198] 


AGAINST    THE    MORROW 

"Well,  you  see,"  she  explained,  "it's  quite 
out  of  the  question  on  account  of  my  — " 

"I  know:  your  scruples,"  said  Mr.  Larry. 
"A  member  of  the  Audubon  Society  would 
find  millinery  mighty  poor  picking." 

"What  an  odd  expression!  "  she  observed. 

"  Odd  ?  It's  common  enough." 

"  I  never  heard  it.  It  sounds  so  bony  — 
like  the  poor  little  birds." 

"  That's  why  I  used  it,"  he  explained.  "  No, 
I  shouldn't  advise  you  to  take  up  millinery 
under  the  circumstances.  What  can  you  do  ?  " 

Her  eyes  lighted,  but  she  dropped  them  in- 
stantly. 

"Well,  she  replied,  "I  can  make  ginger- 
bread," adding  quickly,  "you  say  so  your- 
self." 

"I  do,  indeed,"  Mr.  Larry  assured  her. 
"The  best  gingerbread  I  ever  tasted.  I  make 
no  exceptions.  Mother  made  corking  pies, 
but  her  gingerbread  —  oh,  it  was  scrumptious, 
you  understand,  but  it  lacked  —  how  shall  I 
say  it  ?  —  it  hadn't  the  poetry  of  your  ginger- 
bread. That's  it.  It  didn't  sing,  my  dear." 

"/  thought  of  poetry  too,"  Katrina  con- 
fessed shyly,  "but  I- 

[199] 


KA TRIN  A 


"You  thought  of  poetry?"  Mr.  Larry  re- 
peated,   cautiously.      'You    mean — " 
'  Yes,  as  a  plan,"  she  answered. 

"Capital!"  he  cried.  "I  don't  know  of  a 
better  investment,  if  you  can  only  find  some- 
body to — pay  your  expenses."  He  considered 
a  moment.  "But  as  an  income,"  he  resumed 
slowly,  "that  is,  as  a  steady  income  — " 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Don't  think  of  it,"  my  love,  he  added 
earnestly  in  a  lowered  voice,  gazing  dreamily 
at  his  cigarette.  "Why,  I  knew  a  poet  once. 
He  was  of  the  old  school,  too  —  that  is,  he 
wrote  real  poetry,  you  understand,  not  simply 
verse.  Oh,  he  wrote  beautifully  upon  occa- 
sion. I  remember  one,  especially.  No,  I  re- 
member two,  now  that  I  come  to  think  of  it; 
and  that,  you  know,  is  remembering  a  good 
deal  of  a  modern  poet." 

Mr.  Larry  reflected. 

"Once  in  December,  I  recollect,  his  pub- 
lisher sent  him  a  batch  of  royalities,  for  the 
year  —  a  check."  Here  Mr.  Larry's  voice 
deepened  dramatically.  "Two  dollars  and 
ninety-eight  cents;  with  best  wishes  for  a 
Happy  New  Year." 

[200] 


AGAINST    THE    MORROW 

Mr.  Larry  smiled. 

"  Gingerbread's  safer,  my  love." 

"That's  what  I  thought,"  said  Katrina 
meekly. 

"Do  you  intend  to  live  on  it,  or  by  it  ?"  Mr. 
Larry  inquired.  "  What's  your  idea  ?  " 

Katrina,  her  eyes  upon  her  fingers,  and  her 
fingers  rolling  her  handkerchief  into  a  little 
firm  ball,  took  a  long,  deep  breath. 

"Well,"  she  explained,  "now  I  thought 
this :  /  thought  —  having  the  house,  you  know 
-  and  needing  to  do  something  to  make  my 
living  —  that  I  —  that  is,  I  —  well  —  might 
open  a  shop,  you  know  —  just  a  little  shop  — 
in  the  p-parlor." 

Mr.  Larry  did  not  turn  a  hair. 

"In  Cranford,  you  know,"  Katrina  hast- 
ened to  add,  "they  opened  just  a  little  shop; 
and  if  Miss  Mattie  could,  why  couldn't  I? 
Sell  gingerbread,  I  mean,  and  say,  currant- 
buns,  and  fudges  for  the  school  children." 

Mr.  Larry  blew  a  long  and  very  helpful 
cloud,  and  cleared  his  throat. 

"Well,  now,"  said  he,  "that  does  sound 
promising." 

He  nodded  thoughtfully. 
[201] 


KA TRIN  A 


"It  would  muss  up  the  house  a  little,"  he 
ventured;  "but  I  daresay  that  could  be  ar- 
ranged." 

"Oh,  yes,"  cried  Katrina,  "I  had  thought 
of  that.  I  would  shut  off  the  parlor,  you 
understand  —  make  it  a  regular  little  shop, 
you  know,  with  a  counter,  and  a  sign  in  the 
window,  and  shelves,  and  wrapping-paper  and 
all  —  oh,  as  neat  as  wax !  I'm  sure  the  neigh- 
bors would  all  buy  of  me.  There's  Mrs. 
Greene,  and  Mrs.  Bellows,  and  Mrs.  Robkin, 
and  Mrs.  Bowles,  and  Mrs.  Bennington  - 
yes,  and  Mrs.  Clarke  —  and  Miss  Whitney 
too." 

"Still,"  Mr.  Larry  interposed,  "you  could 
scarcely  expect  them  to  eat  gingerbread  every 
day." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Robkin  is  passionately  fond  of  it," 
Katrina  answered.  "He  told  me  so." 

Mr.  Larry  mused. 

"Perhaps  you're  right,"  he  said.  "I  know 
Robkin.  There  are  other  things  he  takes 
pretty  regularly." 

"He  just  loves  gingerbread,"  Katrina  re- 
peated. "I  know." 

"And   what    do    you    estimate    Mr.    Rob- 
[202] 


AGAINST    THE    MORROW 

kin's  capacity  to  be  —  per  day?"  Mr.  Larry 
inquired. 

"And  there  are  the  buns,  too,"  Katrina  ran 
on,  unheeding;  "and  the  fudges." 

"That's  true,"  he  assented. 

"Currant-buns,"  she  explained. 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  he  assured  her,  swallowing. 
"I  know  those  buns.  You'll  sell  them  hot, 
I  suppose?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  replied;  "that  is,  hot  for 
luncheon  —  hot  every  noon." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  Can't  you  make  it  mornings  —  hot  for 
breakfast  ?  I  can't  possibly  get  home  noons." 

Katrina  smiled  happily. 

"  They'll  be  hot  for  you,  always,"  she  assured 
him. 

"Then  it's  a  charming  plan,"  he  cried, 
"charming,  my  dear.  The  more  I  think  of  it, 
the  better  I  like  it.  But  have  you  figured  out 
what  your  profits  would  be  ?" 

"Well,"  she  replied,  "I  thought  if  I  could 
make,  say,  a  dollar  a  day  —  clear  —  six  dollars 
a  week,  you  see,  leaving  out  Sunday  —  it 
would  be  nice." 

"Very,"  he  said.  "And  how  many  ginger- 
[203] 


KATRIN A 


breads  would  you  have  to  sell  to  make  a  dollar 
a  day?" 

'Oh,  I  haven't  quite  figured  that  out  yet," 
she  explained.  "That,  of  course,  would  all 
depend." 

"True,"  he  assented,  "it  would  all  depend." 

"But  I  ought  to  get  ten  cents  a  loaf,"  Ka- 
trina  argued.  "  So,  you  see,  ten  loaves  at  ten 
cents  apiece,  would  be  a  dollar  a  day." 

"  True,  my  love,"  he  replied  cautiously  - 
treading  gently  lest  he  break  that  dream  - 
"but  there  would  be  the  little  item  of  —  of 
expenditure,    you    know  —  the    cost    of    the 
ginger,  and  the  flour  and  the — ;eggs,  I  take 
it  —  to  be  subtracted." 

"Oh,  of  course,  I  should  always  do  that," 
she  assured  him. 

"As  I  understand  you,"  he  remarked,  "you 
want  to  clear  one  dollar,  every  day." 

'Yes,  that's  it;  clear  one  dollar,"  she  re- 
plied; "that  is,  over  and  above  expenses,  of 
course." 

"Good,"  said  Mr.  Larry.     "Well,  then,  it 
will  first  be  necessary  to  JSgure  the  cost  of 
making  and  selling  a  loaf  of  gingerbread ;  and 
then,  don't  you  see,  you  — " 
[204] 


AGAINST    THE    MORROW 

"Oh,  yes,"  Katrina  assured  him,  "I  knew 
we  should  have  to  do  something  like  that,  of 
course,  but  I  forgot.  Oh !  —  and  I  forgot 
Mrs.  Vale  too.  She  loves  gingerbread." 

Mr.  Larry  abandoned  all  questions  of  ex- 
pense. 

"  I  don't  disapprove  of  the  plan,  at  all,"  he 
said.  As  I  say,  it's  a  lovely  idea." 

"That's  what  /  think,"  Katrina  declared. 
"  I  thought  of  all  the  other  plans  too,  but  they 
seemed  so  — ' 

"Oh,  I  know,"  Mr.  Larry  interposed. 
"They  seemed  so  commonplace." 

"  Except  the  poetry,"  Katrina  replied.  Mr. 
Larry  nodded. 

"  Except  the  poetry,  of  course.  Now  I  can 
understand,"  he  continued,  "I  can  under- 
stand perfectly  that  just  to  make  ginger- 
bread, just  to  be  around  where  it  is  being  made, 
just  to  smell  it,  and  snuff  it,  and  break  off  a 
nice,  hot  crusty  little  corner,  now  and  then — 

"Oh,  you  couldn't  do  that,"  Katrina  ob- 
jected. 

"You  couldn't?" 

"  Why,  no.     They  would  never  buy  ginger- 
bread that  had  been  nibbled." 
[205] 


KA TRINA 


"Oh,  I  don't  mean  nibbled,"  he  explained. 
"Not  nibbled,  of  course.  But  you  always 
have  to  taste  it,  don't  you,  to  see  if  it's  good  ?" 

"Not  taste  it  —  test  it,"  she  corrected  him, 
"with  a  straw." 

"A  straw?"  he  repeated.  "Why,  when 
mother  made  gingerbread,  I  never  used  a 
straw." 

Katrina  smiled. 

"It's  not  so  necessary  to  be  careful,"  she 
admitted,  "  at  home." 

"Isn't  this  to  be  home-made  gingerbread  ?" 
he  urged. 

"You'd  never  make  a  baker,"  was  her 
answer. 

"Still,"  he  protested,  "I  should  want  to  be 
awfully  careful,  if  I  were  you,  not  to  be  selling 
sad  gingerbread,  for  if  Mr.  Robkin  once  got 
a  loaf  that  was  not  all  it  should  be  — " 

She  smiled  reproachfully. 

"  Did  I  ever  bake  you  sad  gingerbread,  Mr. 
Larry?" 

"Never,"  he  confessed.  "That  one  you 
made  yesterday:  it  was  frankincense  and 
myrrh,  my  love.  And  while  we're  on  the  sub- 
ject —  before  I  forget  it  —  you  don't  happen 
[206] 


AGAINST    THE    MORROW 

to  have  any  of  that  same  in  the  buttery,  do 
you?" 

She  laughed  delightedly  and  went  and 
brought  him  some,  and  the  longer  he  munched 
it,  the  rosier  her  vision  grew.  Mr.  Larry  too 
waxed  eloquent  —  that  is,  as  eloquent  as  the 
gingerbread  permitted. 

"Ash  I  shay,"  he  concluded,  "thish  idea 
appealsh  to  me  won'erfly.  Think  I  should 
even  be  willing  to  —  to  buy  up  your  —  re- 
mainin'  shtock  -  -  myshelf  -  -  ev'ry  night  - 
for  my  own  particular  purposhes.  Catch  my 
idea  ?  —  I  really  think  —  I  could  dishposh  of 
what  wash  left.  Eh,  m'  dear?" 

But  she  smiled  now  through  a  sudden  tear- 
fulness. 

:<You  are  always  so  kind,  Mr.  Larry.  I 
believe  you  would  buy  my  whole  stock,  buns 
and  all." 

He  eyed  her  gravely. 

"That  wouldn't  be  kindnesh,  m'love,"  he 
mumbled  with  his  final  mouthful.  "That'd 
be  —  dyshpepshia." 

"  No,"  he  added,  wiping  the  crumbs  away, 
"we  won't  reject  Cranford;  not  just  yet;  not 
to-night,  at  any  rate." 

[207] 


KATRINA 


He  rose  and  paced  up  and  down  the  study, 
between  her  chair  and  the  window. 

"No,"  he  repeated,  lighting  his  cigarette, 
"  whatever  else  we  do,  Katrina,  we'll  keep  it  in 
mind  as  one  of  those  dreams  that  make  life 
lovely.  It's  your  pears-on-a-wall,  in  other 
words,  my  child.  It's  better,  perhaps,  to 
keep  some  dreams  unrealized;  then  their 
bloom  remains  —  it  rubs  off,  somehow,  in  the 
handling." 

He  paused  a  moment,  adding  gravely, 

;'You  might  make  a  gingerbread  now  and 
then,  for  yourself  and  me  —  say,  once  a  week 
—  or  even  oftener,  if  you  like  —  as  a  kind  of 
symbol,  to  remind  us.  Meanwhile  — " 

He  stopped  by  the  desk  and  fumbled  idly 
with  the  papers  there. 

"Meanwhile,"  he  said,  in  a  lower,  more 
embarrassed  tone,  "you  must  remember  that 
I  never  had  a  daughter,  and  this  is  such  a  — 
such  a  splendid  chance  for  me,  that  I  should 
like  you  to  go  on  with  school  and  everything, 
I  think,  just  as  before.  I'll  pay  expenses. 
This  is  your  home,  you  know,  your  house,  your 
furniture,  and  if  I  am  to  live  here,  you  must 
have  some  —  compensation,  you  understand." 
[208] 


AGAINST    THE    MORROW 

"Compensation!"  Katrina  gasped,  "Oh, 
Mr.  Larry,  I  — " 

"Oh,  well,"  he  broke  in  earnestly,  "we'll 
fix  all  that.  But  don't  you  worry.  Don't 
you  worry  about  the  future,  Katrina.  Why, 
you  don't  know  —  you  can't  —  what  it  means 
to  me  to  have  the  — " 

He  laughed,  blushing  like  a  schoolboy. 

"  —  the  privilege  of  your  acquaintance,  my 
dear,"  he  finished  awkwardly,  and  it  was 
fortunate  just  then  that  by  some  mistake  he 
thrust  the  lighted  end  of  his  cigarette  into  his 
mouth,  and  forgot  embarrassment. 

"We'll  have  Mrs.  Jerrold  remain,  I  think," 
he  resumed  presently,  "to  do  the  housework. 
We  shall  want  a  piano." 

"  I'd  rather  have  a  dulcimer,"  Katrina  told 
him. 

"Would  you  ?"  he  asked,  smiling  gratefully. 
"What  is  a  dulcimer?  I'm  blest  if  I  know." 

"  I  believe,  "she  replied, "  it's  a  kind  of  harp." 

"There's  a  poem  about  it,"  said  Mr.  Larry. 
"  It  goes  like  this  — 

It  was  an  Abyssinian  maid 
And  on  her  dulcimer  she  played. 

"That's  all  I  know  of  it.     And  that's  all  I 

[209] 


KATRIN A 


know  about  the  dulcimer.     Still,  we  might  get 
one,  I  suppose." 

"It  would  be  nice,  don't  you  think?" 
Katrina  answered.  "That  is  —  if  it  doesn't 
cost  too  much.  But  in  that  case  we  might  get 
a  very  little  one." 

"True,"  he  replied,  taking  out  his  note- 
book. "I'll  inquire  to-morrow." 

"Dulcimer,"  he  said,  jotting  it  down. 
"And  there  was  something  else  you  told  me  to 
get.  What  was  it?" 

"  Oh,  thread,"  she  replied. 

"No,  I've  got  that  down.     White  No.  80." 

"Brass-headed  tacks." 

"No,  I've  got  them  too." 

Then  they  both  pondered,  gazing  thought- 
fully at  each  other's  face. 

"Cream  cheese!"  they  shouted  with  one 
breath.  "That's  it." 

"Dairy  products  are  very  scarce,"  he  re- 
marked casually.  "  I  see  that  butter's  thirty- 
two  cents  a  pound." 

"By  the  way,"  he  added,  closing  his  memo- 
randum, "  I  don't  know  whether  you've  heard 
or  not,  but  there's  going  to  be  a  fire-sale  of 
canned  goods  at  Watson's  to-morrow." 
[210] 


AGAINST    THE    MORROW 

He  paused  suspiciously,  though  there  was 
not  the  slightest  reason  in  the  world,  in  Ka- 
trina's  face. 

:<Yes?"  she  said,  much  interested. 

"Everything  five  cents  a  can,"  he  continued, 
still  marking  her  with  the  corner  of  his 
eye. 

"At  Watson's,"  she  repeated.  Mr.  Larry 
nodded. 

"You  —  you  don't  happen  to  need  a  — 
an  ice-cream  freezer,  do  you?"  he  inquired 
cautiously.  "They're  marked  way  down  at 
James's.  You  can  get  a  genuine  Pike's 
Peak  centrifugal  - 

Again  he  paused,  not  yet  quite  certain  how 
she  would  take  it,  but  she  still  seemed  serious 
enough. 

"Well,"  she  replied  gently,  "we've  got  one, 
you  know." 

"Oh,  well  in  that  case,"  he  remarked  in- 
differently, though  still  regarding  her  with 
some  disquiet,  "  we  shan't  need  another." 

"It  was  good  of  you  to  notice,"  she  said 
gratefully. 

"No  trouble  at  all,"  he  responded,  more 
reassured  —  quite  reassured,  in  fact,  for  his 
[211] 


KA TRIN  A 


old  ardor  suddenly  came  back  again.     "By 
George!  I  forgot." 

"What?"  she  inquired. 

He  made  no  reply  but  strode  to  the  hall- 
way and  fumbled  for  a  moment  in  the  pocket 
of  his  coat,  extracting  an  odd-looking  package 
which  he  untied  as  he  slowly  returned  to  her, 
and  beaming  like  a  child  he  laid  its  contents 
in  her  lap. 

"There!  "  he  cried.  "There,  my  dear,  is  a 
thing  no  housewife  should  be  without.  It's 
strange  that  women  don't  buy  them  oftener." 

Katrina  took  it  up  curiously,  turning  it  from 
side  to  side. 

"Why,  isn't  it  lovely?"  she  said. 

"Isn't  it!"  he  responded. 

" Yes,"  said  Katrina.  "Why!  it's  a  pepper- 
shaker!  Isn't  it?" 

"Oh,  no,"  he  replied.  "That  isn't  a 
pepper-shaker . ' ' 

"Why,  isn't  that  pepper  in  there?" 

"No.     Sand." 

"Sand!     Then  it  must  be  an  hour  glass." 

"No,"  he  explained,  "it's  more  of  a  minute 
glass.  That's  to  time  eggs  with." 

" To  time— " 

[212] 


AGAINST    THE    MORROW 

"Why,  yes.  Say  you're  boiling  eggs  three 
minutes.  Well  — when  the  sand  runs  to  there, 
your  egg  is  done!" 

"Of  course!"  cried  Katrina,  her  face  glow- 
ing. "So  you  don't  need  the  clock  at  all!" 

"The  clock!" 

Mr.  Larry  grinned  foolishly. 

"By  George,"  he  said,  "I  — I  forgot  the 
clock,"  and  burst  out  laughing.  "I  am  a — " 

"Still,"  said  Katrina,  "ours  does  lose  time 
dreadfully,"  at  which  Mr.  Larry  only  laughed 
the  more. 

"It  does,  really,"  she  persisted.  "Besides, 
one  might  have  a  maid  who  couldn't  tell  time. 
And  this  is  so  simple." 

He  was  still  chuckling. 

"lama—" 

"Stop!"  she  commanded.  "You  can  make 
fun  of  me,  but  not  of  yourself,  Mr.  Larry. 
It's  a  dear,  so  it  is.  I  shall  try  it  in  the 
morning." 

She  rose. 

"  How  do  you  like  them  ?  —  your  eggs,  I 
mean." 

"Some  people  have  very  queer  notions  of 
boiling  eggs,"  he  replied.  "An  egg  boiled  less, 
[213] 


KA TRIN  A 


or  longer,  than  just  three  minutes,  is  so  much 
leather  to  digest.  I  had  the  hardest  time 
teaching  Mrs.  Withers  that." 

"I'll  do  my  best,  Mr.  Larry.  I  may  not 
please  you  always,  you  know,  but  I  — " 

Her  eyes  looked  misty. 

"Oh,  my  dear,"  he  cried,  "it  doesn't  really 
matter  in  the  least  you  know.  A  few  minutes 
more,  or  less,  won't  make  any  difference,  I 
assure  you.  Why,  I've  eaten  two-minute  eggs 
-yes,  and  four,  and  even  five-minute  eggs, 
and  not  suffered  —  at  least  not  greatly." 

"Will  you  lock  the  front  door?"  she  in- 
quired timidly. 

"Yes,  and  I'll  try  all  the  windows  too,"  he 
said.  "Don't  worry.  Oh,  I  say:  do  you  put 
a  pail  out  for  the  milk,  or  anything?" 

"It  comes  in  bottles." 

"By  George,  Katrina,  did  you  know  this 
window-catch  was  broken?" 

"  Oh,  yes  —  it's  been  that  way  for  years," 
she  replied. 

"But,  my  dear,"  he  protested,  "this  will 

never  do!     This  isn't  safe,  you  know.     Why, 

a  burglar  could  get  in  without  the  slightest 

annoyance.    Are  you  sure  the  cellar's  all  right." 

[214] 


AGAINST    THE    MORROW 

"Mrs.  Jerrold  sees  to  that." 

"Has  Mrs.  Jerrold  an  alarm  clock?"  he 
inquired. 

"Oh,  yes." 

"Not,"  he  added,  "that  it  makes  any  differ- 
ence —  when  we  have  the  egg-timer." 

He  locked  the  last  window. 

"Is  that  all,  do  you  think?" 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  gazing  thoughtfully  at 
the  heightened  color  in  his  face.  "I'm  afraid, 
Mr.  Larry,  you  will  find  housekeeping  a  great 
deal  of  trouble  and  responsibility.  You  take 
it  so  seriously." 

"  Oh,  I  rather  like  it,"  he  replied  cheerfully. 

"You  do  know,"  she  said,  "that  I  am  very, 
very  grateful  for  all  your  kindness,  Mr. 
Larry?" 

She  stood  before  him  with  her  face  all 
earnestness  and  his  gift  clasped  to  the  bosom 
of  her  little  black  gown. 

"I  do,  dear  child,"  was  his  reply.  ;'You 
mustn't  thank  me.  It  is  a  great  pleasure  — 
this  is  all  so  new  to  me,"  he  explained  gazing 
about  him,  and  then  as  his  glance  fell  upon 
his  ward  again,  he  added  — "  so  new  and 
charming,  my  dear." 

[215] 


KATRINA 


"  Good  night,"  she  said. 

"Good  night,  Katrina." 

He  raised  her  hand  according  to  his  custom, 
but  it  held  the  egg-timer  —  so  he  kissed  her 
brow. 


[216] 


II 


BILLY  WHITE 

MR.  LARRY,  sitting  at  his  desk  one  afternoon, 
with  his  eyes  fixed  dreamily  upon  the  Cham- 
pagne Soap  sign  opposite  his  window,  and  his 
mind  on  the  Savings  Bank  Tax,  heard 
his  name  emerge  from  the  hum  of  voices 
and  the  click  of  the  typewriters,  and  be- 
came gradually  aware  of  its  repetition,  ac- 
companied by  the  unmistakable  sound  of 
chuckling.  There  was  a  loud  guffaw  as  he 
turned  his  head. 

"  How  about  that  ?  Eh,  Mac  ?  " 
He  glanced  inquiringly  at  the  beaming 
faces  of  his  associates,  and  with  especial  in- 
terest at  the  central  figure  and  evident  pro- 
moter of  their  good-humor,  Billy  White,  the 
sporting  editor  of  the  Herald,  who  had  saun- 
tered in  from  his  desk  in  the  news-room  and 
was  perched  now  on  that  of  the  dramatic- 
man,  with  a  tell-tale  smirk  on  his  blonde  young 
face.  A  recent  graduate  from  the  gridiron  of 
his  university,  and  of  a  pleasant  record  there 
[217] 


KA TRIN  A 


as  a  youngster  of  parts  —  four  parts,  it  was 
said :  bones,  blood,  banjos  and  beer  —  this 
stout  young  rowdy  had  become  a  journalist 
with  the  avowed  intention  of  seeing  Life.  Just 
now,  in  his  role  of  picador,  with  his  bare  arms 
folded,  with  the  light  of  glee  upon  his  counte- 
nance heightened  by  the  smudge  of  soft  pencil 
lead  upon  his  nose,  and  his  short,  brown 
rumpled  hair  rising  from  behind  in  one  quizzi- 
cal, brush-defying  tuft,  he  was  a  model  of 
cheerful  and  irrepressible  impudence,  and 
shirt-sleeved  youth. 

"  How  about  that,  Mac  ?  Teaching  kinder- 
garten, I  hear.  Eh  ?  " 

"You  go  to  the  devil,"  was  Mr.  Larry's 
amiable  reply. 

White  rocked  with  joy. 

"Rumor's  around  that  you  cut  out  paper- 
things,  and  play  ring-around-the-rosy.  And 
I  understand  you  make  the  kids  ante  before 
they  get  any  supper.  Is  that  true?" 

Mr.  Larry's  reply  was  lost  in  the  general 
hilarity  which  died  away  only  to  burst  out 
again  at  mirthful  intervals. 

"Let's  see,"  Billy  White  resumed,  counting 
on  his  fingers,  "  how  old  is  little  Phoebe  now  ? 
[218] 


BILLY    WHITE 


I  know  she  was  eighteen  months  when  she 
had  the  measles." 

His  face  fell  at  the  recollection,  and  he 
shook  his  head. 

"  Sure  thought  we'd  lose  our  darling  then," 
he  said  mournfully,  adding  in  a  brisker  tone, 
"by  the  way,  Mac,  I'm  coming  to  call  some 
evening,  along  about  vesper  bells.  You  know : 
'Now  I  lay  me.'  Oh,  I'm  something  of  a 
dandier  myself.  Hell,  yes,  you  ought  to  see 
me  do  Banbury  Cross.  Great!" 

He  smiled  simperingly  at  Mr.  Larry. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  drawled  in  a  languid,  soprano 
voice, "  little  Phcebe'll  like  me.  All  the  girls  do." 

Mr.  Larry  rose. 

"Excuse  me,"  he  said  calmly,  overlooking 
White,  and  smiling  at  the  doorway,  "while  I 
introduce  to  you  humorous  gentlemen  — 
little  Phoebe  herself." 

White,  scrambling  to  his  feet,  flushed  to  the 
ears  when  he  saw  a  girl  upon  the  threshold. 
She  must  have  heard  him,  he  reflected,  for 
she  seemed  dismayed,  and  about  to  retreat. 

"Katrina,"  Mr.  Larry  said,  advancing  and 
taking  her  by  the  hand,  "let  me  present  to  you 
my  young  friend,  Willy  White." 
[219] 


KA TRINA 


Mr.  White,  crimson  now  and  shuffling  un- 
easily, ducked  his  head. 

"  How-d'y-do.  Oh,  yes,  I've  —  I've  heard 
of  you,  Miss  - 

"  June,  Willy,"  Mr.  Larry  said  in  a  kindly, 
patronizing  voice. 

"Yes,  I've  heard  of  you,  Miss  June." 

" Willy"  Mr.  Larry  continued,  addressing 
Katrina,  and  speaking  with  a  fond  emphasis 
on  his  friend's  name,  "  Willy  has  been  laboring 
under  the  impression  that  you  were  younger. 
Quite  an  infant,  in  fact." 

"Y-yes,"  Mr.  White  admitted  sheepishly, 
"  I  was  just  saying  —  we  were  just  saying  - 
in  fact,  I  was  just  saying  - 

"Willy"  Mr.  Larry  explained  calmly,  "is 
the  sporting  editor  of  the  Herald.  He  reports 
all  the  man-fights,  cock-fights,  dog-fights  - 

"Oh,  how  dreadful!"  exclaimed  Katrina. 
"But  of  course,"  she  added,  "they'll  give  you 
nicer  assignments  by  and  by,  Mr.  White." 

There  was  a  titter  at  that,  quickly  sup- 
pressed. 

"Willy"  Mr.  Larry  continued,  still  speak- 
ing with  grave  distinctness,  and  in  a  voice  that 
could  be  heard  plainly  in  every  corner  of  the 
[220] 


BILLY    WHITE 


room,  "  Willy,  as  you  have  doubtless  already 
guessed,  Katrina,  is  a  rising  young  man,  and 
may,  in  time,  attain  to  almost  anything." 

Mr.  White  laughed. 

"Ha,  ha!  I  guess  you  know  Mac,"  he  said 
nervously  to  Katrina,  and,  with  a  desperate 
endeavor  to  appear  at  ease,  "I  guess  you 
know  Mac,  Miss  June.  He's  a  merry  old 
soul,  isn't  he?  Ha,  ha!" 

"Now,  Willy!"  Mr.  Larry  protested  play- 
fully, shaking  his  finger  at  the  unhappy  young 
man.  " Willy"  he  confided  to  Katrina  in  a 
lower  voice,  "is  a  fellow  of  infinite  jest,  my 
dear.  Yes." 

"Ha,  ha!"  said  Mr.  White,  displaying  some 
signs  of  an  early  departure. 

"Oh,  must  you?"  Mr.  Larry  asked,  "must 
you  go,  Willy  ?" 

But  Billy  White  was  his  own  man  now.  He 
had  recovered  —  if  not  his  composure,  at  least 
a  dignity  that  would  serve  as  well.  It  was  a 
sudden  straightening  of  the  spine  that  made 
one  forget  the  smudge  upon  his  nose. 

"You'll  excuse  me,  Miss  June,"  he  said 
politely,  ignoring  Mr.  Larry.  "The  fact 
is  I've  got  an  engagement.  Happy  to 
[221] 


KA TRIN  A 


have  met  you.  I'll  bid  you  good-day,  Miss 
June." 

"Nice  boy"  Mr.  Larry  murmured  ere  the 
vanishing  youth  was  out  of  hearing,  and  then, 
with  a  nod  and  smile  at  the  wrathful  face 
turned  suddenly  in  the  doorway,  he  took 
Katrina  by  the  hand  and  proudly  presented 
her  to  his  fellow  editors,  who  in  the  midst  of 
their  joy  over  White's  discomfiture,  had  been 
regarding  her  furtively  with  curious  and  ad- 
miring eyes.  It  was  a  trying  ordeal  for  the 
young  schoolgirl,  though  not  less  difficult  for 
the  shirt-sleeved  gentlemen  of  the  press,  who 
vied  with  each  other  in  awkward  courtesy, 
and  spoke  so  fondly  of  her  Mr.  Larry  that  she 
emerged  from  their  greetings  fairer  than  ever 
with  her  flushed  cheeks  and  her  brightened 
eyes. 

This,  then,  was  the  child  Mr.  Larry  had 
taken  to  raise!  This  was  the  reason  he  was 
seen  no  more  in  those  quiet  little  evening 
games  where  his  old  antagonists  found  con- 
solation for  his  absence  in  a  biting  wit  at  his 
expense.  This  was  the  mysterious  maiden 
with  whom  he  had  been  seen  on  a  recent  Sun- 
day walking  sedately  in  the  park,  and  beside 
[222] 


BILLY    WHITE 


whom  even  the  Press  Club's  beefsteak  dinner 
had  no  further  charms! 

"Pretty  excuse!  "  some  one  remarked  when 
she  had  gone,  but  the  ambiguity  was  not  de- 
ceptive. All  doubts  were  at  an  end,  now  that 
they  had  seen  her.  Her  beauty  had  explained 
all  things ;  it  made  all  things  reasonable.  They 
knew  now  why  a  certain  old  coat  and  anti- 
quated hat  had  disappeared  —  familiar  servi- 
tors without  whom  their  bachelor  friend  had 
seemed  transformed.  They  knew,  too,  why 
his  hair  inclined  to  unwonted  trimness;  why 
his  linen  now  was  an  eternal  white;  why  of 
a  Sunday  he  wore  a  frock  coat  —  that  seven 
days'  wonder  which  had  dazzled  their  in- 
formant's eyes. 

"  Some  one  was  with  him,"  this  informant 
had  said,  "but  it  took  so  blamed  long  to  be 
sure  it  was  Mac  there,  I  never  got  'round  to 
make  out  his  lady,  until  she'd  passed.  All  I 
can  swear  to  was  Mac  in  a  long-tailed,  ulster- 
ish  kind  of  a  thing,  with  a  little  blue  blur 
upon  his  arm." 

This,  then,  was  the  little  blue  blur! 

And  it  was  the  little  blue  blur  that  Billy 
White  saw  again,  cooling  his  wrath  in  the 
[223] 


KA TRINA 


Vale  of  Cashmere,  a  lovely  spot,  where  the 
park  deepens  and  there  is  rhododendron  and  a 
water-lily  pond. 

"  I  looked  up,"  said  he,  "  and  there  was  Mac, 
damn  him  —  it's  your  deal,  Joyce.  —  Mac 
piking  along  with  his  head  in  the  clouds,  and  a 
far-away,  dreamy  look  in  his  eyes.  Ever 
seen  Mac  walk  ?  No,  I'm  hanged  if  you  have 
-  unless  it's  lately.  They  didn't  see  me.  I 
ducked  in  an  arbor.  And  he  called  her  dearie 
as  they  passed !  If  there's  a  word  I  hate,  it's 
that  damned  word  *  dearie,'  And  what  right 
has  a  man  to  have  a  nice  little  innocent  thing 
hanging  on  his  arm,  and  looking  up  to  him 
as  if  he  were  the  Angel  Gabriel  —  instead  of 
the  miserable,  poker-playing  reprobate  we 
know  he  is?  Hey,  Joyce?  I  pass." 


[224] 


Ill 


ALADDIN 

THE  dulcimer  proving  on  careful  investiga- 
tion to  be  more  or  less  impracticable,  as  Mr. 
Larry  informed  Katrina,  a  pianoforte  was 
chosen  in  its  stead.  He  confessed  to  a  griev- 
ous disappointment,  having  had  some  notion, 
it  appeared,  of  realizing  that  smuggler's  den  — 
sliding-panel,  Captain  Kidd's  pistol,  Portu- 
guese chest  and  all  —  and  Katrina  was  put  to 
some  pains  to  comfort  him. 

"After  all,"  she  reminded  him  with  the 
most  cheerful  of  faces,  "the  fact  remains  that 
I  am  not  an  Abyssinian  maid." 

"Very  true,"  he  replied,  but  added  bitterly, 
"music-store  clerks  are  the  blamed  est 
fools." 

"Did  they  smile?"  she  inquired. 

"They  smiled." 

"  Smiled  at  my  dear  Mr.  Larry ! "  she  cried 
indignantly. 

"They  did." 

"And  what  did  you  do  ?"  she  asked. 
[225] 


KA TRINA 


"  I  bit  them,"  he  replied  calmly.  "  I  drove 
them  out  of  the  yard." 

"  Oh,  I  should  like  to  have  been  there,"  she 
exclaimed,  laughing.  "  But  really,  you  mustn't 
mind.  The  piano  is  much  more  sensible,  I  am 
sure,  and  I  shall  play  for  you  evenings,  and 
you'll  forget  Abyssinia." 

"I  thought  we  would  call  the  place  the 
Smugglery,"  he  continued  gloomily,  "and  the 
sliding-panel  would  lead  to  the  garden  there." 

"That  would  have  been  charming,"  Ka- 
trina  confessed;  "but  you  would  have  had 
some  trouble,  I  think,  finding  a  pistol  that 
was  Captain  Kidd's." 

"Doubtless,"  he  assented;  "but  we  could 
have  dispensed  with  the  affidavit.  I  should 
have  sent  to  Lisbon  for  the  chest." 

"Never  mind,"  she  replied.  :<You  know 
what  you  told  me  about  my  gingerbread 
dream." 

"Something  philosophical,  I  suppose,"  he 
muttered.  "I've  forgotten  what." 

Katrina  smiled. 

"That's  the  way,  isn't  it,"  she  remarked, 
"with  other  people's  dreams.  But  don't  be 
discouraged,  Mr.  Larry,"  she  went  on  earn- 
[226] 


ALADDIN 

estly,  happy  at  least,  woman-like,  in  being  able 
to  bind  up  a  wound.  "Don't  be  disheartened. 
Whatever  is,  is  for  the  best.  There  must  be 
some  good  reason  why  we  are  denied  the 
dulcimer." 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  assured  her,  "I  have  faith 
enough  to  believe  that  —  quite." 

"And  don't  you  know,"  she  continued 
sweetly,  in  the  gentlest  of  soothing  voices,  "it 
wouldn't  be  wise  for  us  to  have  our  own  way 
always  ?  " 

"I  know,"  he  said. 

"  Just  think  how  selfish  we  would  become," 
she  told  him.  "  Just  think! " 

"  I  do,  Katrina;  I  do  think." 

"And  after  all,"  she  added,  "what  is  a 
dulcimer  compared  with  having  health  ?  — 
and  not  being  in  debt,  or  anything?" 

"Nothing,"  he  replied  meekly,  and  her 
heart  swelled  proudly  to  see  how  comforted 
he  seemed,  and  resigned,  and  peaceful. 

"Come,"  she  said,  "let's  play  pinochle,  and 
forget  all  about  it."  And  it  was  entirely  to  the 
dear  child's  credit  that  he  laughed  heartily 
throughout  the  game. 

Such  moods  of  weakness,  she  reflected,  were 
[  227  ] 


KA TRIN  A 


rare  in  Mr.  Larry.  Usually  he  was  the  hap- 
piest of  men,  and  they  went  out  blithely  now 
into  a  world  she  had  never  known,  with  whose 
glittering  pageantry  he  loved  to  dazzle  those 
wondering  eyes  of  hers.  It  was  that  world 
down  town,  in  which  she  saw  him  now  as  a 
greater  hero  than  ever  she  had  pictured  him 
with  all  her  fondness.  Under  his  escort  she 
witnessed  miracles  quite  as  enchanting  and 
almost  as  marvelous  as  Arabian  nights.  Doors 
opened  to  him  at  his  merest  smile  or  nod. 
Door-keepers  bowed  submissively  as  she  passed 
them,  leaning  proudly  on  her  Aladdin's  arm. 
On  crowded  festivals,  when  other  people 
pressed  and  fought  and  stood  on  tiptoe  and 
craned  their  necks  to  see,  two  magic  words  — 
The  Herald  —  and  presto!  she  and  Aladdin 
were  whisked  up  back  stairs  to  the  airiest 
vantage-places,  from  which  parade  or  ball, 
orators  or  games  Olympian,  lay  in  gala  splen- 
dor at  their  very  feet.  Even  without  him  such 
sway  he  had,  mere  bits  of  pasteboard  with  his 
magic  formula,  or  their  corners  clipped,  ad- 
mitted Katrina  and  her  dear  friend  Betty  to 
afternoon  musicales  and  discreet  diversions 
of  the  ladies'  clubs. 

[228] 


ALADDIN 

If,  however,  there  was  one  instant  in  this 
new  life  when  her  soul  trembled  with  unaccus- 
tomed bliss,  and  if  in  Mr.  Larry's  days  there 
was  one  moment  of  moments  when  he  felt 
rewarded  beyond  his  due,  it  was  when  Katrina 
in  a  very  halo  of  her  youthful  loveliness,  came 
down  the  stairs  to  him,  dressed  for  the  play. 
No  younger  beau,  he  was  wont  to  assure  him- 
self, as  he  sat  waiting  in  the  little  study,  smok- 
ing and  musing  of  what  time  had  done  for 
him  —  no  younger  gallant  had  ever  waited 
with  a  blither  expectancy,  nor  had  ever  saint, 
he  told  himself  as  he  heard  her  step  upon  the 
stair  and  stood  in  the  door-way  raising  his 
eyes  to  her,  beheld  the  vision  of  a  fairer  angel 
descending  in  a  cloud  of  fire. 

She  came  down  softly  in  rustling  silk,  its 
color  his  own  old-fashioned  fancy  —  dregs-of- 
wine.  She  wore  at  her  throat  lace  and  a 
necklace  of  sparkling  garnets  which  had  been 
her  mother's  when  a  maid  herself.  Her  hair 
curled  sweetly  about  her  forehead,  her  lips 
were  parted,  her  cheeks  rosy,  her  eyes  shin- 
ing with  the  modest  exhilaration  of  a  young 
girl's  setting  forth. 

The  gown  was  of  Mr.  Larry's  choosing.  It 
[229] 


KA  TRIN  A 


was  a  birthday  gift,  and  he  had  grudged  no 
time,  or  money,  or  embarrassment  to  make  it 
perfect  according  to  his  whim.  It's  color  was 
a  trifle  too  mature,  she  fancied,  for  her  tender 
years,  but  she  would  not  confess  it  for  the 
world,  when  he  found  such  joy  in  its  sober 
loveliness.  He  had^i&d  no  eyes  for  any  other 
hue,  it  seemed;  though  the  counters  were 
like  rainbows,  he  had  inquired  instantly  for 
dregs-of-wine. 

The  yards  required  were  another  matter, 
a  doubtful  question  which  he  had  faced  anx- 
iously, even  with  suspicion. 

"But  is  that  inclusive?"  he  had  asked. 

"Beg  pardon?"  the  young  lady  clerk  re- 
plied. 

"  Does  that  include  everything  ?" 

"Everything." 

"  Plaits,  ruffles  —  gores  —  everything  ?  " 

"Everything." 
'You  are  quite  certain?" 

"  Perfectly.  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  telling 
lies." 

"Oh,  I  don't  doubt  you,  Miss,  but  you  see 
—  this  is  a  —  a  very  particular  kind  of  gift. 
It's  for  a  lady." 

[230] 


SHE  CAME;  DOWN  SOFTLY 


ALADDIN 

"Ah,"  said  the  clerk,  archly.  "I  under- 
stand !  When  is  this  to  be  ?  " 

Mr.  Larry  stared.  Then  a  peculiar  smile 
flitted  a  moment  about  his  lips,  as  with  a 
furtive  glance  at  the  neighboring  shoppers  he 
whispered  hoarsely: 

"  Next  Thursday  evening,  at  seven  o'clock." 

This  was  the  gown  which  Katrina  had 
christened  at  Betty  Wendell's,  an  evening 
party  from  which  she  returned  unpleasantly 
surprised.  There  had  been  some  games,  it 
appeared,  of  a  frivolous  character. 

"And  what  do  you  mean  by  frivolous 
games?"  Mr.  Larry  inquired. 

"  Oh,  you  know,"  she  replied. 

"  I  am  constrained  to  believe  that  you  must 
mean  kissing-games,"  he  suggested. 

"Oh,  all  such  absurd  pastimes,"  Katrina 
answered,  tapping  her  foot  upon  the  fender. 
"  I  do  not  approve  of  them  at  all." 

And  after  a  little  she  added  thoughtfully, 
"'and  I  do  not  believe  in  co-education,  either." 

"  Ah,"  he  cried,  "  that's  another  mat- 
ter." 

"But   is   it?"    she   replied   earnestly,   and 
blushed  deeply  when  he  laughed. 
[231] 


KA TRINA 


This  was  the  gown  which  Katrina  gathered 
so  prudently  in  her  gloved  fingers  on  the 
muddy  cross-walk  at  the  Grand,  and  which, 
once  seated  within  the  theater,  she  confided 
happily  to  Mr.  Larry  "  compared  so  favorably" 
with  the  others  there.  It  was,  in  truth,  the 
most  wonderful  thing  she  had  ever  worn  — 
yet  here  was  a  world  in  which  she  could  forget 
it  utterly  with  the  first  overture,  and  never 
remember  it  again ! 

Mr.  Larry  —  handsome  as  a  prince,  she 
thought,  in  his  new  dress-suit  —  was  far  more 
engrossed  in  that  living  drama  in  the  soul  be- 
side him,  than  in  the  one  before  his  eyes.  Had 
he  shut  them,  blotting  out  play  and  players 
from  his  ken,  and  had  he  stopped  his  ears,  he 
would  have  known  precisely  by  the  pressure 
of  Katrina' s  hand  upon  his  arm  those  awful 
moments  when  evil  stalked  upon  the  stage, 
and  by  his  arm's  release  might  have  sworn 
safely  to  the  de'il's  discomfiture.  Katrina, 
philosophizing  upon  Some  Aspects  of  the 
Modern  Drama,  confessed  a  preference  for 
the  first  and  last  acts  —  the  last,  more  espe- 
cially —  because  as  she  pointed  out  subtly  to 
Mr.  Larry,  "the  ones  in  the  middle"  could 
[232] 


ALADDIN 


"never  be  depended  on."  As  might  be  in- 
ferred, this  remark  was  the  fruit  of  mature 
reflection,  and  of  a  knowledge  watered  with 
many  tears. 

It  would  not  have  been  possible,  for  ex- 
ample, on  that  first,  that  wondrous,  never  to  be 
forgotten  evening  of  her  young  life,  when  she 
clung  timidly  to  Aladdin's  arm  and  passed 
marveling  into  that  throng  of  the  "hand- 
somest people  she  had  ever  seen,"  and  the 
lights  and  music  of  the  Grand.  That  first 
play  was  The  Flower  o'  the  Thorn. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Larry,"  she  whispered  breath- 
lessly when  the  curtain  fell  on  the  middle  act, 
"  you  do  think  it  will  come  out  all  right  ?  " 

She  was  looking  up  anxiously  through  her 
tears. 

-  "I  do,"  he  assured  her,  patting  her  hand. 
"  I  do,  Katrina.  I  think  we  have  every  reason, 
my  dear,  to  hope  for  the  best." 

"Why,  he  simply  worships  her!"  Katrina 
declared.  "You  can  see  it  in  his  face." 

"True,"  said  Mr.  Larry. 

"  But  why  doesn't  he  speak  then  ?   /  would." 

"  Ah,  but  you  see  he  can't  —  not  yet,  you 
know.     You  see  he  supposes  that  she  — " 
[233] 


KA TRIN  A 


"I  know,  Mr.  Larry,  but  she  doesn't!  She 
simply  loathes  the  other  man." 

"  True,"  he  replied,  "  but  you  see  Arnold— 

"Isn't  he  lovely!"  Katrina  interposed. 
"And  Miss  Dare!  Oh,  I  wish  he'd  hurry!" 

"He  will,"  Mr.  Larry  assured  her  cheer- 
fully. "  He  will.  Don't  worry." 

"  But  some  one  ought  to  tell  him,"  Katrina 
protested,  wiping  her  eyes.  "  Think  of  all  those 
people  standing  around  up  there,  never  saying 
a  word  —  not  a  single  word  to  him!" 

"It  is  rather  thoughtless  of  them,"  Mr. 
Larry  conceded. 

"  Why,  it's  criminal ! "  Katrina  replied.  "  Oh, 
dear,"  she  added,  with  a  little  shudder  as  a  bell 
tinkled;  and  then  as  the  curtain  slowly  began 
to  rise  she  gave  Mr.  Larry  a  tremulous  side- 
long smile,  and  laid  her  hand,  by  way  of  pre- 
caution upon  his  arm. 

"Oh,— oh,— oh!" 

Never  had  she  beheld  so  lovely  an  orchard 
as  this  apple  bower !  There  was  every  promise 
of  a  bounteous  harvest.  It  must  have  been  a 
perfect  spring  —  no  blighting  frosts  —  for  the 
flowers  lay  thick  as  bees  upon  every  bough, 
and  their  petals  fell  softly,  softly,  softly  and 
[234] 


ALADDIN 

silently  as  snow.  There  was,  moreover,  an 
enchanting  vista  of  smiling  meadows  in  the 
rear,  with  purple  hills  against  an  azure  sky. 
The  very  nets  to  which  the  orchard  clung, 
faintly  descried  even  by  Katrina's  eyes,  were 
not  annoying,  but  lent,  rather,  a  hazy,  dreamy 
texture  to  this  Arcadia.  And  in  the  midst, 
seated  pensively  upon  a  rock  which  the  petals 
littered,  was  the  fairest  of  earth's  younger 
daughters  -  -  Viola  —  in  a  rosy  frock  and  a 
delicious  hat,  speaking  to  herself  the  most 
bea-w-tiful  words  in  a  voice  all  tears  and 
silver. 

Katrina,  spell-bound,  sat  with  fixed  eyes  and 
parted  lips,  motionless  save  for  that  tide  rising 
and  falling  in  her  tender  bosom. 

Enter,  into  that  Eden,  the  serpent,  as  of 
old  —  a  man,  immaculate  and  tailor-made, 
but  too  dark-complexioned  to  be  trusted, 
stalking  about  in  a  pair  of  brown  riding  boots 
and  speaking  in  a  grating  voice,  so  that  Ka- 
trina, instantly,  was  in  a  panic,  and  clutched 
Mr.  Larry's  sleeve. 

Well- 

It  was  a  beautiful  play,  that  Flower  o'  the 
Thorny  and  very  popular  in  Katrina's  girlhood, 
[235J 


KA T  RIN  A 


and  there  was  one  breathless  moment  in  it, 
there  in  the  orchard,  when  Katrina  jumped, 
and  Viola  turned  upon  the  evil  one,  her  frail 
form  quivering  with  emotion  —  "  I  hate  you, 
Adam  Varney!" 

"  Goody!"  cried  Katrina  —  though  her  voice 
and  the  patter  of  her  eager  hands  were  lost 
hopelessly  in  the  thunder  of  the  gods  above. 

Then  Arnold  entered  —  Arnold  of  the  strong 
right  arm  and  the  golden  hair  —  and  from 
that  blessed  moment  there  was  nothing  but  the 
loveliest  loveliness,  and  when  the  curtain  fell, 
Katrina  was  in  happy  tears.  She  could  not 
speak  for  them,  but  Mr.  Larry  helped  her  with 
her  cloak  and  guided  her  gently  to  the  outer 
air. 

"And  now,"  said  he,  "what  do  you  say  to  a 
nice  little  oyster-stew  ?  " 

"Oh,  Mr.  Larry!"  she  managed  to  utter, 
half  in  surprise,  half  in  reproachfulness.  "  Do 
you  feel  like  oysters?" 


[236] 


IV 


HIGHER  THINGS 

WHILE  there  was  a  grave  doubt  in  Mr. 
Larry's  mind  that  his  friend  Billy  White  would 
ever  forgive  him,  their  casual  meetings  were 
amiable  enough,  and  if  there  was  anything 
changed  in  the  demeanor  of  the  sporting 
editor,  it  was  of  a  nature  desirable  rather  than 
otherwise,  for  he  seemed  more  respectful  in 
his  address,  more  studious  of  his  English,  less 
jaunty  in  his  replies. 

"How  long  before  you're  going?"  he  mildly 
inquired,  pausing  by  Mr.  Larry's  desk  one 
afternoon. 

"Now,"  was  the  answer. 

"Anything  special  on?"  asked  Mr.  White. 
"I'll  go  along  with  you,  if  you  don't  ob- 
ject." 

"Why,  not  at  all,"  replied  Mr.  Larry,  and 
went  out  pleasantly  enough,  with  Billy  on  his 
arm.  They  went  to  Relish's,  where  it  is  pos- 
sible for  very  good  friends  to  find  a  stall  some- 
what removed  from  the  general  eye  and  bustle, 
[237] 


KA TRINA 


and  there  sat  down  quietly,  in  the  best  of 
humor,  to  discuss  the  world. 

"Why,  Billy,  where' s  your  plaid  vest?" 

Mr.  White  smiled  and  pulled  reflectively  at 
his  college  briar. 

"What  an  ass,"  he  remarked,  "a  young 
kid  makes  of  himself!  —  swaggering  around 
bars  in  a  fifteen  dollar  Jones-McAdam  suit, 
and  as  if  nobody  had  ever  said  'Hell'  before." 
Mr.  Larry  regarded  the  youth  with  mild 
astonishment. 

"I  used  to  think,"  Billy  continued  in  his 
contemplative  vein,  "  that  a  plaid  vest  was  the 
hall  and  mint  mark  of  virility/'  It  was 
evident  that  he  had  chosen  the  word,  for  he 
spoke  each  syllable  with  great  distinctness, 
and  smiled  contentedly  when  it  was  done. 

"And  now?"  Mr.  Larry  inquired. 

"Oh,  now!"  was  the  answer,  and  they 
smoked  silently  for  a  moment  or  two,  while 
Mr.  Larry  recovered  from  his  bewilder- 
ment. 

"Had  any  luck  lately?"  he  asked. 

"Haven't  played  for  a  month." 

Mr.  Larry  stared. 

"Poker,  I  meant." 

[238] 


HIGHER    THINGS 


"Oh,  I  know,"  Billy  replied.  "Poker's  all 
right,  but  after  all  - 

He  paused  to  knock  out  the  ashes. 

-  after  all,  Mac,  it's  a  mighty  small  part 
of  life  —  comparatively  speaking." 

"Oh,  yes!  Comparatively  speaking,"  Mr. 
Larry  agreed. 

Billy  deliberately  refilled  his  pipe,  in  silence. 
He  struck  a  match,  puffed  vigorously  two  or 
three  times,  and  leaned  back  thoughtfully  on 
the  leathern  seat. 

"No,"  he  remarked,  "a  fellow  can't  be 
wasting  his  time  at  that  sort  of  thing,  if  he  ever 
wants  to  do  anything." 

"  Oh,  no,"  Mr.  Larry  murmured,  giving  the 
youth  a  furtive  glance  or  two. 

"No,"  Billy  White  resumed.  "I  guess  my 
cub  days  are  about  over.  Sitting  up  nights 
and  raising  Cain  generally  may  be  well  enough 
when  you've  got  nothing  else  to  —  occupy 
your  mind;  when  you're  breaking  in  writing 
football  stuff,  and  all  that  rot  —  as  I've  been 
doing." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  But  there  comes  a  time  in  every  man's 
life,"  he  added,  gazing  dreamily  at  the  distant 
[239] 


KA TRIN  A 


bar  -    "  and  you  know  it,  Mac,  as  well  as  I  do 
-  when  a  fellow  has  to  —  well  —  think  seri- 
ously of  a  thing  or  two.     You  know  what  I 
mean." 

"Oh,  yes;  I  know  what  you  mean,"  Mr. 
Larry  gravely  replied. 

"Mac,"  Billy  White  announced,  striking  the 
table  with  his  fist,  and  scowling  fiercely,  "  I've 
cut  the  whole  business ! " 

"By  George,  Billy,  you  don't  mean  it!" 

"I  do.  I  have,  Mac;  I've  cut  the  whole 
business  —  forever." 

His  face  relaxed. 

"  Not,"  he  added,  with  a  wave  of  his  pipe  — 
"  not  that  there  is  anything  inherently  distaste- 
ful in  such  things." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Mr.  Larry. 

"But  because,"  Billy  White  explained,  "I 
realize  that  the  time  has  come  when  I've  got 
to  think  of  the  future." 

"Excellent  idea,  Billy,"  Mr.  Larry  replied. 

"Why,"  said  the  sporting  editor,  lowering 
his  voice  and  speaking  confidentially,  "you 
know,  Mac,  as  well  as  I  do,  that  this  business 
of  writing  up  man-fights,  dog-fights,  cock- 
fights, as  you  expressed  it  one  day  to  me  — ' 
[240] 


HIGHER    THINGS 


"Oh,"  Mr.  Larry  interposed,  " you  mustn't 
mind  what  I  said.  It  was  all  in  fun." 

"I  don't.  I  don't  mind,"  Billy  White 
assured  him  with  eager  earnestness. 

"I  was  only  jesting,"  Mr.  Larry  explained. 

"Understand  that,  Mac.  I  understand.  I 
understand  perfectly.  But  what  I  was  getting 
at,  was  this:  you  were  dead  right,  you  know! 
No  question  about  it.  This  here  business  of 
writing  up  sport  is  all  right  if  a  chap  doesn't 
care  for  anything  else;  but  when  you  have  a 
taste  for  higher  things  —  you  know  what  I 
mean." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  know;  I  know  what  you  mean," 
Mr.  Larry  assured  him. 

"Aspirations,"  Billy  White  explained. 
"When  a  man  has  aspirations,  and  all  that 
kind  of  thing  —  that  is,  of  course,  if  he  has 
any  innate  refinement,  you  understand  —  you 
understand  what  I  mean." 

"Oh,  yes;  I  understand  what  you  mean." 

"  Mind,  Mac :  I'm  not  making  any  brag,  you 
know.  I'm  not  setting  myself  up  for  a  little 
tin  god,  you  understand,  just  because  I  happen 
to  see  in  life  what  a  lot  of  my  friends  don't 
see.  I'm  not  saying  that  I'm  better  than 
[241] 


KA TRINA 


they  are,  because  I've  cut  it  all  out,  and  they 
haven't." 

"Oh,  no,"  Mr.  Larry  acquiesced. 

"All  I  say  is  this,  Mac:  that  I  ought  to  be 
getting  better  assignments.  I've  got  it  in  me. 
I  know  I  have.  And  they've  kept  me  at  sport 
long  enough." 

"Well,"  Mr.  Larry  replied,  "something  has 
certainly  stirred  you  all  up,  Billy." 

"Something  has,"  Billy  White  replied. 
"And  do  you  want  to  know  what?  It  was 
what  you  said  that  day  —  about  the  man- 
fights,  dog-fights,  cock-fights!  It  set  me  to 
thinking.  And  it  was  about  time,  too." 

Mr.  Larry  looked  pleased. 

"Well,"  he  replied,  "I'm  glad  if  I  —  if  any- 
thing I  ever  said  was  a  help  to  you,  Billy." 

"Well,  it  was,"  the  young  man  warmly 
assured  him.  "  I  went  away  hot  —  oh,  I  own 
up !  —  I  went  away  hot  as  —  well,  I  was  pretty 
mad  about  it,  but  I  got  to  thinking  down  in 
that  plaguey  little  Vale  of  Cashmere  in  the 
park  —  you  know  the  spot  —  and  I  said  to 
myself,  *  Billy  White,  what's  it  going  to  be? 
Man-fights  and  dog-fights  all  your  life  —  or 
higher  things  ? ' ' 


HIGHER    THINGS 


Mr.  Larry  nodded  approvingly. 

"And  what,"  Billy  White  inquired,  "could 
any  self-respecting,  ambitious  fellow,  with  ten 
grains  of  refinement  in  him,  say  to  that  ?" 

"What  do  you  propose  to  do?"  Mr.  Larry 
asked.  He  felt  drawn  to  Billy  White." 

"Well,  there  you've  got  me,"  the  youth 
replied,  his  face  falling.  "  That's  what  I  can't 
make  out.  This  fancy-vest  life  I've  been 
leading  has  spoiled  everything,  I'm  afraid. 
They  all  think  I'm  a  sport,  and  they  know  I 
can  write  the  guff,  and  I  couldn't  convince 
them  in  a  thousand  years,  I  suppose,  that  I 
could  write  anything  else.  Unless  — " 

"Unless  what,  Billy?" 

"  Well,  unless  you  help  me.  You've  helped 
me  once  as  I  say,  by  putting  the  whole  business 
in  a  kind  of  —  epigram.  I  owe  this  whole 
damned  awakening  to  you.  I  can  never  repay 
you,  Mac,  for  opening  my  eyes.  You  go  to 
Harned,  and  tell  him  I'm  tired  of  these  sport- 
ing assignments,  that  I've  sowed  my  wild  oats, 
and  that  I  want  to  settle  down.  I've  got  a 
B.A.,  you  know  —  so  I  ought  to  know  some- 
thing about  the  arts.  And  I've  got  an  uncle 
who's  a  bang-up  critic  —  sits  up  all  night 
[243] 


KATRINA 


writing  books  on  architecture,  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing  —  and  my  sisters  are  musical  - 
and  I've  got  a  cousin  on  the  stage.  You  can 
see,  for  yourself,  the  kind  of  environment, 
I've  had,  and  why  I'm  sick  of  writing  this 
base-ball  twaddle." 

"Not  that  it's  inherently  distasteful,  of 
course,"  Mr.  Larry  suggested. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Billy,  "but  for  higher 
reasons." 

"Very  well,  my  boy,  I  must  be  going  now, 
but  I'll  do  what  I  can.  I'll  speak  to  Harned 
in  the  morning." 

Billy  White  seized  Mr.  Larry's  hand. 

"By  Jove,  that's  good  of  you,  Mac!  If 
you'll  do  that,  I'll  be  Yours  Truly  for  the  rest 
of  my  life,  so  help  me  I  will.  You'll  see. 
You  can't  begin  to  guess  all  this  means  to 
me." 

"Probably  not,"  Mr.  Larry  replied;  "but 
I'll  be  glad  to  see  you  doing  well,  Billy." 

"Well,  if  I  do,  Mac,  I'll  owe  it  all  to  you. 
Sorry  you've  got  to  go  so  soon.  Such  con- 
versations don't  come  my  way  very  often,  and 
you've  given  me  some  corking  good  ideas." 

Mr.  Larry  smiled  incredulously. 
[244] 


HIGHER    THINGS 


"/have!" 

Billy  nodded,  and  Mr.  Larry's  eyes  twinkled 
delightedly. 

"  Well  then,  think  over  all  I've  said,  Billy  — 
and  good-by." 

"I  will,  Mac.  Good-by,  and  good-luck. 
And  oh,  I  say,  don't  forget  - 

"Harned,"  Mr.  Larry  replied  nodding.  "I 
won't." 

"  Oh,  yes,  Harned,  of  course.  But  I  meant 
don't  forget  to — remember  me  to  Miss  June." 


[245] 


V 


A   WRITING   MAN 

MR.  LARRY  was  one  of  those  homely  men 
to  whom  Time  is  kind;  in  whom  wrinkles  are 
no  detraction  but  with  whitening  hair  add  a 
rare  dignity  and  benignant  grace,  as  if  Nature 
had  grown  remorseful  for  her  long  inclemency, 
granting  these  belated  favors  as  a  recom- 
pense for  those  other,  more  youthful  charms 
denied.  He  looked,  as  Katrina's  friends  would 
tell  her,  like  a  man  who  might  have  done  great 
deeds  had  he  desired.  That  he  had  failed  to 
do  them,  that  he  had  never  written,  for  ex- 
ample, that  book  which  every  man  feels  in  his 
heart  he  might  have  written,  and  which  every 
journalist  means  to  write  some  day,  when  he 
finds  the  leisure,  was  a  matter  of  regret  to  his 
admiring  ward.  The  things  he  uttered  seemed 
far  more  droll  to  her  than  any  she  had  ever 
read.  That  he  knew  the  world  as  well  as 
novelists  she  could  not  doubt,  listening  to 
those  trenchant  words  in  which  he  pictured 
it  for  her  sole  amusement.  Surely  he  must 
[246] 


A    WRITING    MAN 


know  life,  she  thought,  who  could  analyze 
hers  so  well  that  she  often  marveled  at  his 
insight.  He  had  never  been  a  girl,  yet  those 
inner  feelings  that  perplexed  and  troubled  her, 
came  quite  to  pieces  in  his  hands.  Why  had 
he  never  used  that  power  to  win  a  name? 
She  sometimes  asked  him,  but  there  was 
more  of  humor  than  of  satisfaction  in  his 
vague  replies.  He  had  been  too  busy,  he 
explained,  and  beside,  in  these  days  when 
there  is  sure  to  be  a  pen  scratching  away 
behind  every  ink-well,  he  was  inclined  to 
believe  that  it  was  a  distinction  not  to  have 
written  books,  and  in  an  age  when  newspapers 
turn  their  search-lights  upon  every  cranny  of 
the  universe  it  was  an  honor,  he  claimed,  to 
have  escaped  their  rays. 

Excuses,  these  were,  but  hardly  reasons, 
Katrina  held,  and  as  she  grew  in  the  wisdom 
of  that  very  world  she  would  have  had  him 
write  about,  as  her  mind  matured  and  flowered 
in  a  thousand  fragrant  and  rosy  thoughts, 
she  became  more  certain  that  deep  down  in  his 
hidden  life  there  was  a  Cause  for  this  failure 
to  become  a  hero.  Young  Mr.  White,  for  one, 
agreed  with  her,  and  other  friends,  though  less 
[247] 


KA TRINA 


familiar  with  Mr.  Larry's  professional  career, 
were  quite  as  confident  that  he  might  have 
burned  genius  on  higher  altars,  had  he  but 
tried.  To  Katrina's  mind  there  was  a  pleas- 
ing pathos  in  the  thought  of  this  renunciation, 
investing  him  with  an  interest  almost  as  desir- 
able as  fame  itself  —  and  more  romantic. 

"We  must  remember,"  she  said  with  dignity 
and  a  heightened  color  to  one  who  had  charged 
Mr.  Larry  with  the  sin  of  indolence  —  "we 
must  remember  that  he  is  a  bachelor." 

"And  what,  pray,  has  that  to  do  with  it?" 
she  was  asked. 

"It  might  have  everything,"  she  replied. 
"He  knows  the  world  —  yes;  he  knows  the 
mind ;  but  how  —  how  possibly  —  can  he  know 
the  heart?" 

She  was  a  little  astonished  at  her  own  in- 
sight, and  from  that  moment  of  inspiration, 
born  of  the  necessity  for  his  defense,  her  soul 
swelled  with  a  new  and  very  tender  pity  for 
his  loveless  life.  How  a  wife  might  have 
kindled  his  fondest  dreams  into  deeds  as 
beautiful,  it  was  not  at  all  difficult  for  her  to 
fancy,  knowing  so  well,  as  she  once  told  him, 
what  her  mother  had  been  to  Professor  June. 
[248] 


A    WRITING    MAN 


"Love,"  she  observed,  "is  a  curious  thing. 
That  is,  choosing  is  curious.  Isn't  it  odd  that 
so  many  nice  people  —  there  was  Aunt 
Miranda,  for  instance  —  should  be  left  out, 
when  so  many  queer  people  get  in!" 

"That,"  Mr.  Larry  replied,  "is  how  I  used 
to  feel  as  a  boy,  when  I  saw  the  other  folks 
going  to  the  circus." 

"Dear  Aunt  Miranda!"  Katrina  mused. 
'You  should  have  known  Aunt  Miranda, 
Mr.  Larry.  She  used  to  tell  me  about  my 
mother.  Mother  was  a  great  favorite,  she 
said.  Oh,  there  were  several  young  men  who 
wanted  to  marry  her  —  one  especially,  a  splen- 
did fellow  —  brilliant,  Aunt  Miranda  said. 
But  mother  went  visiting,  and  there  she  met 
father,  and  being  Presbyterian,  and  mother 
being  Presbyterian,  and  all,  why,  I  sup- 
pose— 

Katrina  pondered. 

"  Nobody  knows  what  became  of  the  other 
man.  He  was  invited  to  the  wedding,  Aunt 
Miranda  said,  but  he  didn't  come,  which  was 
not  so  strange,  of  course,  but  it  was  then  dis- 
covered that  he  had  disappeared." 

"Disappeared!" 

[249] 


KA TRIN  A 


"Yes,  he  had  disappeared.  And  he  never 
came  back." 

Mr.  Larry  stared. 

"Or,  at  least,  they  never  saw  him  again, 
Aunt  Miranda  said.  It  was  rumored,  I  believe, 
that  he  did  return  —  oh,  months  afterwards, 
and  quite  suddenly — but  they  never  saw  him." 

"And  what,"  Mr.  Larry  inquired  with  some 
hesitation,  "do  you  think, — became  of  that 
other  man  ?  " 

"Well,"  she  replied,  "I've  often  thought  of 
it,  and  while,  of  course,  no  one  can  say,  I  have 
had  an  idea — ' 

She  paused  doubtfully. 

"Well,  it  seems  to  me,"  she  began  again, 
slowly,  "that  the  very  most  natural  thing  that 
would  happen  to  a  man  like  that  —  and  I've 
even  considered  just  how  Jane  Austin  would 
have  looked  at  it  —  first  would  be  this :  he 
would  become  very  serious,  don't  you  think? 

-  and  would  seldom  smile;  and  would  read  a 
good  deal,  until  at  last  he  would  be  just  a 
quiet,  lovely,  elderly  gentleman  —  oh,  quite 
the  opposite  of  his  youth,  you  know  —  and 
kind  to  everybody,  especially  animals,  and 
children  —  especially  girls." 
[250] 


A    WRITING    MAN 


Mr.  Larry  stared. 

"And  how,"  he  inquired,  "did  you  think 
of  that?" 

"Why,  I  reasoned  backward." 

"Backward!" 

"I  mean,"  she  explained,  and  she  flushed 
a  little,  "  that  I  said  to  myself  —  now  you 
mustn't  mind,  Mr.  Larry!" 

"Why,  no;  of  course  not." 

"You  see,"  said  Katrina,  "I  had  to  take 
some  one,  just  for  example;  and  you  are 
the  only  old  bachelor  I  know." 

"I  see,"  he  said. 

"You  aren't  angry?" 

"Not  at  all,  my  child.  It  was  most  in- 
genious." 

*Do  you  know,"  she  said,  "I  think  Aunt 
Miranda  loved  that  man  ?" 

The  match,  flaring  in  Mr.  Larry's  fingers, 
burned  to  their  tips. 

"No/ "he  said. 

"  I  do,  really,"  she  repeated.  "  I  didn't  guess 
it  till  long,  long  afterward  —  quite  recently 
in  fact.  I  was  so  young,  you  see,  when  she 
told  me  about  him.  It  wasn't  so  much  what 
Aunt  Miranda  said,  as  the  way  she  said  it." 
[251] 


KA TRINA 


"  How  did  she  say  it  ?  "  he  inquired.  Katrina 
was  doubtful. 

"I  don't  know.  I  couldn't  explain  it.  I 
only  feel  it,  that  is  all.  It's  an  Intuition,  Mr. 
Larry,  and  besides,  it's  not  impossible,  you 
know." 

He  was  silent  a  moment. 

"No  —  it's  not  impossible,"  he  said. 

"It  would  make  a  lovely  story,"  Katrina 
told  him.  "The  Other  Man!  Why  don't 
you  write  it  ?  " 

"I!" 

"Yes.    You  could  do  it  so  well!" 

He  shook  his  head. 

But  the  more  she  thought  of  it,  of  the  book 
which  he  had  never  written,  and  of  this  story 
which  he  declined  to  tell,  the  more  she  urged 
that  he  should  try. 

"Just  once,"  she  pleaded.  "Some  story, 
any  way,  Mr.  Larry.  Just  think,  if  you  write 
a  novel  they'll  publish  your  picture  —  and 
your  middle  name!" 

"Sh!"  was  his  answer.  "Don't  speak  of  it, 
my  dear.  I  guess  you  don't  know  my  middle 


name." 


[252] 


A    WRITING    MAN 


"No,"  she  replied.  "What  is  your  middle 
name,  Mr.  Larry?  " 

He  looked  about  him,  but  the  door  was 
shut. 

"Sassoon,"  he  whispered.  "It's  a  family 
name." 

"Well,"  she  admitted,  "I  don't  think  it 
adds  particularly." 

"Nor  I,"  he  assented.  "My  parents,  you 
see,  had  family  pride,  but  were  hard  of  hear- 
ing." 

"That  might  account  for  it,"  she  said. 

"No  doubt  of  it,"  he  answered.  "They 
were  loyal  souls,  without  being  musical.  You 
catch  the  distinction?" 

"I  think  I  do,"  she  answered.  "And  was 
Sass  — ' 

"  Sassoon,  my  love." 

"Was  Sassoon  your  mother's  name?" 

"Thank  God,  no,"  he  replied  fervently. 
"Her  name  was  Riley." 

Many  little  bookish  dialogues  whiled  away 
hours  at  their  disposal,  and  slowly  but  surely 
Katrina's  appeals  to  him  began  to  tell.  Why 
not  write  a  book?  he  asked  himself.  It  was, 
after  all,  the  one  dream  left  to  him,  as  he  had 
[253] 


KA TRIN  A 


said  —  the  one  young  dream  still  possible  of 
realization.  And  Katrina  wished  it:  there 
was  force  in  that. 

"I  will,"  he  told  her.  "I'll  write  a  book! 
I'll  write  it  for  you,  Katrina.  By  George,  I 
will !  No  —  we'll  both  write !  You  write  your 
story,  and  I'll  write  mine,  here,  evenings. 
We'll  write  together!" 

"What  shall  you  call  your  story?"  she  in- 
quired. 

"'  Katrina,' "  he  replied,  so  promptly  that 
she  gasped. 

"Really?" 

"Of  course  I  will." 

"And  mine,"  she  said,  "will  be  'The  Other 
Man.'  When  shall  we  begin?" 

"Now.     To-night." 

It  was  the  first  time  that  she  had  ever  seen 
him  at  his  desk,  and  she  marveled  at  the 
ease  with  which  ink  flowed  for  him,  her 
eyes  widening  to  see  how  one  flourish  of  his 
pen  would  bring  words  popping  from  the  well, 
like  fairies  summoned  by  a  magic  wand. 

"You  are  an  Aladdin!"  she  declared.  "I 
don't  see  how  you  do  it.  Why,  you  don't  have 
to  even  think!" 

[254] 


A    WRITING    MAN 


"Don't  I?"  he  replied. 

"Why,  no,"  she  answered.  "You  don't 
stop  to  bite  your  pen,  or  draw  pictures,  or 
look  out  of  the  window,  or  anything." 

"Is  that  how  you  think?" 

"Why,  yes.  Always.  All  my  pen-holders 
are  bitten  at  the  end." 

"You're  a  squirrel,"  he  replied.  "Does  it 
really  help  you  ?" 

"Oh,  lots,"  she  told  him;  "why,  sometimes, 
when  I  have  been  a-sitting  that  way,  biting 
my  pen,  the  most  beautiful  thoughts  come  — 
things  that  I  hadn't  even  dreamed  I  would 
think." 

"And  all  from  nibbling,"  he  remarked, 
astonished. 

"  That's  my  experience,"  she  replied.  "  But 
you  don't  bite  at  all." 

"No,"  he  said.  "You  see  I'm  accustomed 
to  using  typewriters,  and  you  can't  bite  a  type- 
writer." 

Katrina  laughed. 

"Well,  I  shouldn't  like  to,"  she  assured 
him. 

"  Then,  too,"  he  explained,  "  time's  precious 
on  the  Herald" 

[255] 


KA TRIN  A 


Night  after  night,  now,  they  wrote  together 
at  the  same  great  desk  —  the  old  walnut 
monster  which  had  been  her  father's  —  Ka- 
trina  on  one  side,  Mr.  Larry  on  the  other; 
Katrina  pensive,  smooth-browed,  self-pos- 
sessed ;  Mr.  Larry  scowling  darkly  at  the  sheets 
before  him,  absent  of  mind,  and  as  the  evening 
waned,  shaggier  and  shaggier  of  hair.  Quietly 
watching  him  when  her  own  thoughts  lagged, 
Katrina,  nibbling  dreamily  at  her  pen,  mar- 
veled at  the  spell  which  bound  him  to  his 
task. 

She  saw  him  begin,  erect  in  his  chair,  his 
brows  at  a  droll,  half-quizzical  elevation,  his 
eyes  dilating,  his  nostrils  twitching  now  and 
then  as  with  the  scent  of  battle  in  the  air,  his 
hands  moving  incessantly  with  his  pen  or  his 
cigarette,  for  he  puffed  valorously  in  those 
earlier  moments,  his  feet  shuffling,  his  whole 
frame  shifting,  army-like,  on  the  brink  of 
action,  uncertain  which  of  its  forces  should 
lead  the  van.  She  saw  him  then  charge  sud- 
denly—  a  troop  of  words  dashing  forward, 
only  to  be  flung  back,  crumpled  and  fluttering 
to  the  floor,  while  he  lighted  another  cigarette. 

Three  puffs. 

[256] 


A    WRITING    MAN 


His  shoulders  lower  a  little;  his  eyebrows 
drop.  For  a  moment  a  death-like  silence 
reigns  —  then  his  pen  begins,  nervously  - 
here  a  word,  there  the  semblance  of  one  — 
there  another  struck  out  instantly  as  by  a 
rifle-ball,  a  second  moving  up  swiftly  into 
place,  till  one  by  one,  line  by  line,  the  clear 
white  field  is  blackened  by  an  ever-growing, 
surging  host  —  and  the  action's  on.  Now  and 
again  the  pen  is  dropped  —  a  match  crackles, 
blazes  for  a  moment,  and  goes  out,  while  a 
thin  blue  cloud  spreads  slowly  over  the  battle- 
field. And  then,  as  the  moments  pass,  Ka- 
trina  forgets  her  task,  forgets  the  pen-holder 
now  resting  idly  between  her  lips,  and  with 
fascinated  gaze  sees  those  broad  shoulders 
hump  manfully  over  Mr.  Larry's  knees  as  he 
sits  forward,  poised  on  the  very  edge  of  his 
revolving  chair.  She  sees  his  face  droop,  his 
brooding  eyes  darken  with  a  kind  of  mighty 
rage,  the  furrows  deepening  in  their  midst,  his 
lips  tightening,  his  breathing  labored,  as  if 
half  witheld,  his  cigarette  now  lifeless  between 
his  teeth  —  and  over  all,  that  long,  gray  curl- 
ing forelock  of  his  hair  descending,  lowering 
with  each  trailing  line,  till  it  shades  his  eyes 
[257] 


KA TRIN  A 


and  he  strikes  it  back  with  an  angry  flourish 
of  the  hand. 

His  very  garments  share  in  the  tumult. 
The  bosom  of  his  shirt  bulges  formidably; 
the  collar  of  his  coat  rises  to  his  ears ;  his  cuffs 
creep  out,  threatening  to  enclose  his  hands, 
while  his  sleeves  recede;  and,  strangest  of  all 
-  a  mystery  never  to  be  solved,  it  seems, 
though  Katrina  strives,  time  and  again,  to  fix 
her  gaze  upon  it  —  always  in  some  unguarded 
jiffy  when  her  eyes  are  elsewhere,  that  little 
bow-tie  of  his  melts  by  magic,  and  wriggles 
away  in  two  little  black  strings. 

"Dear  Mr.  Larry,"  she  whispers  as  he 
drops  his  pen.  "You  look  so  ruffledy." 

"Ruffledy?" 

"Yes.  It  musses  you  all  up,  to  write, 
doesn't  it?" 

But  he  only  laughs  at  her,  lighting  another 
cigarette  as  he  leans  back  comfortably  in  his 
chair. 

"You've  got  ink  on  your  nose." 

"Where?     Here?" 

"No.  There.  Oh,  mercy!  Don't.  You're 
making  it  worse.  Why,  look  at  your  hands!" 

"By  George!  Katrina,  how  do  you  manage? 
[258] 


A    WRITING    MAN 


What  do  the  lady- writers  do,  I  wonder?  You 
don't  suppose — " 

"Dear,  no!" 

"Why  not?  Jane  Austen,  for  example: 
don't  you  suppose  that  she  ever  got  ink  on  her 
nose?" 

"Mr.    Larry!      No!     Callers  might  come." 

"By  George!"  he  replies.  "That  sets  me 
to  thinking.  Take  poets,  Katrina,  and  all 
other  —  sensitive  writing  souls.  They  don't 
like  to  be  caught  in  their  fine  frenzies,  do  they  ? 
—  and  why  ?  Because  the  afflatus  may  be 
interrupted  ?  Why,  no.  They're  ashamed  of 
themselves!  Aye,  that's  the  secret!  They 
don't  want  to  be  looked  at.  Just  think,  my 
love !  A  poet,  a  laureate  maybe,  with  a  great 
blot  of  ink  on  his  nose!" 

"But,"  says  Katrina,  "the  women  don't 
spatter.  They  dip  neatly  —  so." 

"Maybe,"  he  answers.  "But  I'd  like  to 
have  seen  that  Eliot  woman  writing  the  scene 
where  the  Floss  spills  over  —  Golly!  —  there's 
ink  for  your  nose ! 


[259] 


VI 


ARCADIAN   VISTAS 

THOSE  fine  frenzies  lasted  one  week.  At 
the  end  of  seven  nights  the  afflatus  ebbed, 
waned,  subsided  -  "  busted "  was  the  verb 
Mr.  Larry  used.  He  was  surprised,  he  said, 
and  pained,  and  shocked  beyond  expression, 
at  the  English  language,  of  whose  utter  shal- 
lowness  he  had  never  so  much  as  dreamed; 
and  as  he  said  this  he  threw  down  his  pen. 

Katrina  suggested  biting  it,  but  that  came 
to  nothing.  Then  he  tried  pencils — one  hard, 
two  soft:  they  would  only  mark.  He  rose 
and  tramped  up  and  down  the  study;  he  ran 
his  fingers  through  his  hair;  he  whistled, 
hummed,  drummed,  hemmed,  hawed,  and 
smoked  incessantly  —  to  no  avail.  The  words 
would  not  come.  Then  he  went  to  the 
shelves,  for  a  bracer  of  Kipling,  and  a 
chaser  of  Howells,  as  he  told  Katrina.  He 
skimmed  some  essays  -  "  Books,"  "  Nature," 
"Culture,"  "Method,"  "Selection,"  "Self- 
expression,"  "The  Creative  Mind,"  "Con- 
[260] 


ARCADIAN    VISTAS 


summation  "  -  but  consummated  naught.  So 
he  tried  the  advertisements  in  the  back  of  a 
magazine. 

Katrina  looked  grave. 

"How  far  have  you  got?"  she  inquired 
sympathetically. 

"I'm  at  Chapter  IV." 

"What  is  it  about?" 

"That's  what  I  don't  know.  That's  why 
I'm  treed." 

"Then  why  don't  you  skip  it?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  but  —  where  shall  I  skip  to  ?" 

"Why,  to  Chapter  V." 

"  But  I  don't  know  what  Chapter  V  is  about, 
either." 

"You  don't?" 

"No." 

"You  couldn't  skip  two  chapters,  could 
you  ?"  she  inquired  cautiously.  But  he  shook 
his  head. 

"Oh,  no,"  he  replied.  "That  would  never 
do." 

It  was  a  problem,  plainly  enough,  but  when 
her  mind  gave  out,  Katrina's  heart  rose  to  the 
emergency. 

"Don't  be  discouraged,"  she  said  cheer- 
[261] 


KA TRINA 


fully.     "I'd  wait,  if  I  were  you,  till  the  spirit 


moves." 


Mr.  Larry  waited.  First,  however,  he  re- 
filled the  ink-well,  chose  a  new  pen,  and  with 
a  tempting  array  of  fresh  white  sheets  on  the 
desk  before  him  he  thus  began : 

CHAPTER  IV 


and  threw  himself  back  resigned,  receptive, 
entirely  unbiased  as  he  confessed,  with  a 
mind  open  to  conviction  on  any  score  and  to 
any  rational  degree. 

And  the  spirit  moved  him. 

It  was  the  merest  joggle  of  the  elbow,  to  be 
sure,  but  it  altered  the  matter  to  read  thus : 

CHAPTER  IV 
The 

after  which  Author  and  Spirit  drew  back  a 
little  to  regird  their  loins. 
[262] 


ARCADIAN    VISTAS 


"I  think,"  said  Katrina,  "I  know  what's 
the  matter,  Mr.  Larry?" 

"What?" 

"  Why,  something's  missing." 

"Don't  I  know  that?"  he  retorted  sharply. 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  what  you  mean,"  she 
quickly  answered.  "I  mean  what  you  told 
me  once  —  don't  you  remember  ?  —  pears  on 
a  wall!" 

"That's  so,"  he  replied. 

"You  should  be  in  the  country,"  she  de- 
clared, "to  write  your  novel.  You  should 
have  that  nice  little  cottage  you  used  to  dream 
of.  Then  you  could  write." 

"I  believe  I  could,"  Mr.  Larry  replied. 
"There's  a  lot  in  environment.  Right  con- 
ditions—  that's  what  every  man  must  have, 
to  accomplish  anything.  I  read  so  this  eve- 
ning in  one  of  those  essays." 

"Think!"  cried  Katrina,  clasping  her  hands 

—  "of  a  nice,  green,  flowery  place  to  write  in! 

—  apple-trees,    golden-rod,    bouncing    Betty! 
Oh,  I  should  like  to  have  a  farm,  I  think,  and 
make  things  grow!     Wouldn't  it  be  fine  if  we 
could  sell  this  town  house  and  buy  one  in  the 
country?" 

[263] 


KA TRIN  A 


"Do  you  really  mean  it?'*  Mr.  Larry  asked. 

"Of  course,  I  do.  An  old,  old,  old  little 
place,  you  know,  with  just  enough  trees  and 
bushes  and  ground  about  it  to  grow  our  own 
vegetables,  and  hay  for  the  horse,  and  have 
chickens,  and  ducks,  and  doves,  and  bee-es! 
Just  a  nice  little  farm,"  Katrina  rushed  on 
exultantly,  "where  one  wouldn't  have  to  get 
up  at  five  in  the  morning  and  milk  cows  and 
do  drudgery,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  you 
know,  which  tires  country  people  out,  and 
makes  them  look  lean  and  withered  before 
their  time.  Oh,  not  that  at  all!  That  would 
be  horrid.  But  just  a  nice,  sweet  little  place, 
where  we  could  live  quietly  and  reasonably, 
with  good  fresh  milk,  and  honey,  and  eggs, 
and  butter,  and  where  we  could  stroll  in  the 
fields  and  pick  wild-flowers  all  day  long!" 

There  was  a  heavenly  radiance  in  Katrina's 
face. 

"And  you'd  study  and  write  lovely  books! 
—  and  I'd  play  the  piano!" 

The  child  was  in  an  ecstasy. 

"And  who,"  asked  Mr.  Larry  with  some 
hesitation,  "  would  do  the  —  the  work  ?" 

"Oh,  we  would,"  she  replied;  "but  we 
[264] 


ARCADIAN    VISTAS 


wouldn't  make  work  of  it!  Don't  you  see? 
That's  just  the  point!" 

He  seemed  astonished. 

"Why,  yes,"  she  explained.  "That's  just 
where  farmers  make  their  mistake.  They 
don't  go  at  it  right." 

"It's  a  new  thought  to  me,"  Mr.  Larry 
confessed,  "as  applied  to  our  country;  but  it 
was  quite  common,  I  believe,  formerly,  in 
Arcadia." 

"Let's  do  it!"  cried  Katrina;  but  Mr.  Larry 
hesitated. 

"Breakfast  when?"  he  inquired  cautiously. 

"Eight,"  she  replied. 

"Suits  me,"  he  said..  "But  how  about  the 
stock?" 

"The  stock?" 

"  Yes.  Stock,  you  know,  has  an  unpleasant 
habit  of  rising  with  Aurora,  and  blatting  about 
it,  and  raising  Cain  generally." 

Katrina  smiled. 

"Ours  wouldn't,"  she  assured  him.  "We'd 
buy  blooded  stock,  that  would  stay  up  late 
nights  and  sleep  in  the  morning." 

"In  that  case,"  cried  Mr.  Larry,  "I  agree 
heartily.  But  where  shall  we  have  our  farm  ?  " 
[265] 


KA TRIN  A 


"Well,"  she  replied  pensively  —  thinking 
of  the  farm  in  The  Flower  o'  the  Thorn,  with 
the  orchard  clinging  to  the  net,  and  the  apple 
blossoms  falling  in  a  snowy  shower  at  Viola's 
feet  -  "  it  doesn't  much  matter  where  we  have 
it,  so  long  as  we  have  some  mountains  in  the 
distance  - 

"A  perfectly  reasonable  demand,"  Mr. 
Larry  interposed. 

-  and  a  river,  or  lake,"  Katrina  continued, 
"  and  the  loveliest  little  mossy-shingled  house, 
gray  and  weather-beaten,  among  the  lilacs, 
and  under  the  shade  of  tall  elm  trees  —  and 
with  honey-suckle  climbing  on  the  porch  — 
and  an  old,  old  well." 

"I  have  heard  of  such  places,"  said  Mr. 
Larry,  "and  I  think,  that,  between  us,  we 
might  buy  one." 

"Oh,  cheap!"  she  added.  "An  abandoned 
farm!" 

"I  like  the  idea,"  he  confessed;  "it's  so 
mossy  and  lilac-y.  I  used  to  think  that  I 
could  write  in  a  place  like  that,  and  by  George, 
I'm  beginning  to  think  so  again!" 

"Oh,   I   know  that  you   could!"   Katrina 
assured  him.     "1  should  write  some  myself. 
[266] 


ARCADIAN    VISTAS 


Perhaps  not  this  story,"  she  added  doubtfully, 
gazing  at  the  handful  of  neglected  pages  on  the 
desk,  ''for  somehow  I'm  beginning  to  wonder 
if  prose  is  my  style  after  all." 

"Verse,  do  you  think?"  Mr.  Larry  sug- 
gested. "  Would  you  desert  Jane  Austen  ?  " 

"I  shall  never  desert  Jane  Austen, "Katrina 
declared.  "But  in  the  country,  you  know,  I 
think  it's  quite  natural  to  turn  to  poetry.  In 
fact  I  have  leanings  that  way  —  already." 

"Indeed!  "he  said. 

'Yes.     And  oh,  I  forgot  to  tell  you  what  I 
found  to-day !     Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese  - 
an  old  copy  that  mother  had  when  she  was 
a  girl !     And  on  the  fly-leaf,  what  do  you  think 
it  says  ?  " 

"What?"  asked  Mr.  Larry,  rising  so  sud- 
denly that  he  knocked  over  the  waste-basket. 
It  was  his  face,  however,  that  most  astonished 
her. 

"Are  you  ill,  Mr.  Larry?" 

"  Oh,  no,"  he  replied,  sitting  down  again. 

"Are  you  quite  sure  you're  not  ill,  Mr. 
Larry?" 

"  Quite;  quite  sure,"  was  the  answer.  "What 
was  this  —  this  inscription,  did  you  say?" 
[267] 


KA TRIN  A 


"Oh,    the    strangest    thing!"    she    replied. 
"  Let's  see  if  I  can  remember  it.     It  went  like 
this :  '  To  Katrina  L.  —  otherwise  known  - 
otherwise    known    as    the    Fair    Cordelia' 
now,  listen,  Mr.  Larry,  for  the  strangest  part 
of  all's  to  come !  —  *  the  fair  Cordelia,    The 
Lady  —  of  the  Dregs-of-Wine!" 

There  was  a  breathless  silence. 

"So  mother  must  have  had  a  dregs-of- 
wine!" 

Katrina's  face  was  shining  with  delight. 

"Isn't  it  interesting!"  she  cried.  "And 
isn't  it  wonderful,  Mr.  Larry,  that  you  should 
have  chosen  the  very  same  color  my  mother 
wore,  for  me!" 

"And  isn't  it  wonderful  that  mother  should 
have  been  called  Cordelia,  and  that  now  you 
should  have  a  Delia,  Mr.  Larry,  in  'Cap  and 
Bells!'  Oh,  I  think  it's  the  strangest  coin- 
cidence I  ever  heard  of!  Why,  it's  like  a 
story!  —  isn't  it?  But  that's  not  all!" 

Mr.  Larry,  who  had  been  listening  without 
a  syllable,  without  the  glimmer  of  a  smile  for 
all  these  wonders,  leaned  slightly  forward. 

"No,"   said   Katrina,    "that's   not   all.     It 
says  on  the  fly-leaf:  'To  Katrina  L.,  otherwise 
[268] 


ARCADIAN    VISTAS 


known  as  the  Fair  Cordelia,  the  Lady  of  the 
Dregs-of-Wine  —  from  the  Bean-Pole!'' 

Mr.  Lariy  gasped. 

"Fancy!"  said  Katrina.  "Fancy  father 
being  called  the  Bean-Pole!" 

And  Mr.  Larry  —  sank  back,  smiling,  in  his 
chair. 


[269] 


VII 

THE   RENAISSANCE 

IT  was  now  a  pleasant  time  in  the  life  of 
Katrina  and  her  Mr.  Larry,  one  of  those 
seasons  which  pass  tranquilly,  destined  how- 
ever to  grow  in  eventfulness  as  they  recede. 
Never,  in  Katrina's  memory  of  him,  had  he 
seemed  so  happy;  never  had  he  laughed  so 
much,  or  said  droller  or  tenderer  things,  or 
been  more  prodigal  in  chocolates  and  holidays. 
His  heart  seemed  to  her  a  fountain  of  eternal 
youth,  and  through  her  girlhood's  vague  and 
shadowy  hopes,  as  through  a  golden  mist,  she 
saw  no  future,  however  distant,  that  he  did 
not  share. 

If  there  was  one  accusation  more  than 
another  at  which  Mr.  Larry  would  have  merely 
smiled,  as  being  unworthy  of  any  other  answer, 
it  would  have  been  the  charge  that  he  was 
negligent  in  his  watchfulness  of  that  life  en- 
trusted to  his  care.  Were  his  eyes  not  always 
upon  that  fair  young  face?  Could  a  shadow 
cross  it  in  his  presence  that  he  did  not  mark 
[270] 


THE    RENAISSANCE 


it  instantly  and  seek  to  alter  it  to  a  smile  ?  - 
that  quick,  bright  smile  which  warmed  his 
heart  with  the  consciousness  that  he  was  much 
beloved  ?  Did  not  the  very  memory  of  it  creep 
inevitably  between  those  lines  which  he  wrote 
daily,  warming  them  also  to  a  kindlier  spirit 
for  his  fellow-men? 

That  stinging  sharpness  which  had  been  Mr. 
Larry's  pride  in  other  days,  and  which  he  had 
made  a  thing  to  be  feared  and  reckoned 
with  in  that  public  life  which  he  lashed  so 
mercilessly  with  his  pen,  had  disappeared, 
and  however  better  for  his  soul  this  change 
might  be,  it  won  no  favor  at  the  Herald.  It 
had  been  noted  by  those  above  him,  whose 
interests  he  served,  and  even  the  younger 
members  of  the  staff,  who  had  envied  formerly 
his  subtle  irony  and  biting  wit,  now  marked 
the  change  in  him.  He  had  grown  faint- 
hearted, they  declared ;  he  was  too  compassion- 
ate; erred  now  on  the  side  of  clemency  where 
once  he  had  been  relentless  in  pursuit  of 
the  evils  of  the  day.  These,  it  was  said,  were 
signs  of  decrepitude,  or  rather  of  the  premature 
decay  of  powers  overtaxed  by  a  veritable 
vampire  of  a  profession,  whose  insatiable  de- 
[271] 


KA TRINA 


mands  upon  a  man's  invention  and  unceasing 
vigilance  sucked  his  brains  dry  before  their 
time.  In  some  such  words  young  Herald 
philosophers  waxed  eloquent  over  cheese  and 
beer,  pointing  to  Mr.  Larry  and  others  of  their 
elder  confreres  as  examples  foretelling  their 
own  decline.  Aye,  Journalism  was  a  sphere 
for  youth  to  rise  in,  rocket-like,  but  with  a  fall 
as  certain  and  more  swift,  they  said,  leaving 
of  all  that  splutter  of  fiery  stars  —  a  stick ! 

Surely,  then,  no  charge  of  negligence  could 
be  well-founded,  when  the  charm  of  Mr. 
Larry's  guardianship  could  so  beguile  him 
into  a  better  contentment  with  the  world  - 
even  that  part  of  it  in  which  Katrina  had  no 
share,  and  whose  deeds  and  misdeeds  he 
viewed  more  calmly  than  of  yore.  Yet  with 
all  that  keenness  of  sight  and  insight  which 
had  marked  him  among  his  fellows,  he  was 
well-nigh  blind,  as  Love  is  said  to  be,  to  what 
was  passing  beneath  his  very  eyes.  He  had 
not  been  reckoning  with  Time,  apparently, 
his  own  season  being  so  serene  and  permanent 
to  his  consciousness,  however  autumnal  to 
other  minds.  Yesterday  he  had  been  a  man 
in  life's  very  prime,  Katrina  but  a  child.  To- 
[272] 


THE    RENAISSANCE 


day  he  was  still  that  man  —  still  stout  of 
limb,  tranquil  of  heart,  still  master  of  his  life 
and  destiny.  To-day,  also,  Katrina  —  was 
she  not  still  that  child  of  Yesterday?  To- 
morrow —  when  Time  might  have  dealt  some- 
what with  himself,  as  well  —  she  would  be  a 
woman;  but  not  To-day. 

It  was,  therefore,  with  a  sense  of  surprise, 
concern,  and  incredulity  that  Mr.  Larry  would 
awake  sometimes  to  the  realization  that  the 
child  Katrina  had  slipped  away !  —  just  when 
he  knew  not,  just  how  he  could  never  tell. 
And,  then,  when  he  felt  most  certain  of  her 
absence  and  most  alarmed  by  it  —  then,  in  an 
instant,  in  a,  smile  or  an  altered  tone  of  hers, 
in  her  merest  word,  or  glance,  or  gesture,  the 
child  was  there  again,  innocent,  roseate- 
visioned,  making  him  wonder  if  her  disappear- 
ance had  not  been  fancy  after  all. 

But  these  transformations  became  more  fre- 
quent. Does  a  child  read  Sonnets  from  the 
Portuguese?  —  and  discourse  on  the  Beauty 
of  Life,  and  the  Wisdom  of  Virtue,  or  the  Cer- 
tainty of  Immortality?  All  these  things,  it 
appeared,  Katrina  had  thought  about,  and  had 
decided  affirmatively.  It  was  true,  he  remem- 
[273] 


KA TRINA 


bered,  that  the  child  Katrina  —  had  she  not 
been  a  grave  little  thing  always  ?  —  had  given 
some  thought  to  these  larger  matters;  yet  now 
she  spoke  of  them  in  a  larger  way.  There  was 
a  new  note  in  the  voice  Mr.  Larry  loved  to 
listen  to,  and  one  not  to  be  smiled  at  any 
longer,  not  to  be  heard  indulgently  or  whim- 
sically altogether,  as  before,  but  to  be  answered 
seriously,  though  Mr.  Larry  observed  in  this  a 
curious  thing,  and  profited  by  the  discovery: 
that  just  when  the  woman's  converse  became 
most  wise  and  grave,  the  child  came  back 
again !  —  a  little  shyly,  even  a  little  tearfully 
sometimes,  but  always  to  cheer  him  with  the 
consciousness  that  she  was  not  yet  lost  to  him, 
and  with  the  hope  that  however  Time  might 
emphasize  the  woman  in  Katrina's  soul,  the 
child  there  would  live  and  play  and  laugh 
forever. 

Woman  Katrina  must  become  inevitably, 
he  knew  —  was  becoming  now;  but  in  a  vigil 
which  he  kept  one  night  by  the  law  of  chivalry, 
not  kneeling  in  the  ancient  usage  but  smoking 
fiercely  and  striding  up  and  down  his  chapel 
floor,  with  only  the  moonbeams  to  keep  him 
company,  he  made  a  vow.  And  thus  Mr. 
[274] 


THE    RENAISSANCE 


Larry  became  a  knight!  —  even  with  his  youth 
behind  him,  with  his  fighting  time  gone  and 
those  days  at  hand  when  men  turn  from  their 
strife  to  their  ease,  and  from  their  hope  to  their 
resignation,  he  sallied  forth  bravely  with  his 
dear  child's  favor  upon  his  heart,  armed  only 
with  his  Love  and  Knowledge  against  Old 
Time  and  his  flashing  scythe. 

;' You  see  I  am  not  a  little  girl  any  longer," 
she  once  reminded  him  when  he  seemed  to  be 
doubtful  of  the  way  her  hair  was  dressed. 

"No,"  he  replied,  but  as  if  still  wistful  for 
the  former  mode,  "that's  true,  my  dear,  you 
have  caught  ,up  — " 

"To  my  dream,"  she  interposed,  "of  being 
a  real,  real  lady." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I  meant  to  your  long  words,  Katrina.  I 
can  never  laugh  at  them  any  more." 

In  all  his  precautions  and  defenses  in  her 
behalf,  lest  some  subtle  enemy  should  harm 
those  serene  ideals  which  she  had  formed,  or 
disturb  the  ardor  of  her  hopes  and  fancies,  he 
was  never  more  watchful,  never  more  ready 
and  resolute  with  all  the  resources  at  his  com- 
mand, than  when  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  the 
[275] 


KATRIN A 


perplexities  of  that  outer  world  which  he  him- 
self had  spread  before  her  eyes,  might  corn- 
fuse  her  vision.  Returning  from  those  little 
venturings  which  she  made  into  the  varied 
knowledge  it  had  to  offer  her,  he  strove  not 
only  to  smooth  its  roughness,  but  to  teach  her 
confidence  in  the  face  of  its  awe-inspiring 
heights  and  the  maze  of  pathways  leading  up 
to  them  from  the  level  meadows  where  the 
child  had  played.  He  sought,  moreover,  with 
a  journalist's  contempt  for  all  mere  lovely 
shadows  of  things,  to  teach  their  substance, 
and  all  this  he  did  so  fervently  and  with  such 
conviction  in  his  tones  that  he  seldom  failed  to 
dispel  the  mists. 

When  she  returned  from  the  Literary  Club, 
much  edified,  the  Renaissance  having  been 
the  subject  of  the  day,  he  smoked  calmly, 
but  inwardly  he  was  apprehensive;  these 
literary  clubs  might  prove  to  be  the  very 
measles  in  disguise. 

"Let's  see,"  he  said,  "I  know  how  to  spell 
it,  but  what  was  the  Renaissance,  my  dear?" 

"I'll  tell  you  all  about  it,  if    you'll  wait  a 
minute,"  Katrina  answered.     "I  made  some 
notes  of  it  on  my  program." 
[276] 


THE    RENAISSANCE 


"Excellent  idea,"  he  said. 

"The  Renaissance,"  she  began  cautiously, 
consulting  her  notes,  "  has  well  been  called  the 
'  discovery  by  man  —  of  himself  —  and  the 
world.'" 

"Ah,  I  see!" 

"Morelli,"  Katrina  continued,  "calls  it- 

"  I  wonder  if  he  is  any  relation  to  Alderman 
Morelli?"  Mr.  Larry  remarked. 

Katrina  shook  her  head. 

"Mrs.  Gatehouse  didn't  say;  but  she  quoted 
a  Mr.  Morelli  —  let's  see  —  what  did  she  say  ? 
Oh,  yes :  Mqrelli  —  speaks  admirably  —  of 
'the  period  when  it  was  the  principal  aim  of 
art  —  to  seize  —  and  represent  —  the  outward 
abbreviation  (that's  not  right)  —  the  outward 
appearance  of  persons  and  things  —  deter- 
mined —  determined  by  inward  —  and  moral 
—  conditions." 

She  paused  triumphantly. 

"Now,"  said  Mr.  Larry,  "we  are  getting 
to  the  roots." 

"Well,   I   couldn't  put  everything  down," 

Katrina  explained,  but  I  see  I  have  written 

'fifteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries,  fidelity  to 

nature,  enthusiasm  for  external  beauty,  just 

[277] 


KA TRINA 


and  harmonious  proportions,  veneration  for 
the  antique'  -  and  a  few  other  things.  It 
was  most  interesting!  Afterward  they  served 
tea  and  we  all  met  Mrs.  Gatehouse,  who  was 
graciousness  itself.  Oh,  I  should  love  to  be  a 
woman  like  that,  and  know  as  much  as  she 
does!" 

Katrina  paused. 

"I  don't  suppose  I  ever  shall,"  she  added 
sadly.  "Mrs.  Gatehouse  speaks  four  lan- 
guages, fluently.  She  was  dressed  entirely 
in  black  silk  trimmed  with  the  most  exquisite 
lace  you  ever  saw." 

Mr.  Larry  smoked  thoughtfully. 

"What  is  it  next  week?"  he  inquired,  and 
again  Katrina  consulted  her  program. 

' '  A  reading  from  Robert  Browning's  Pippa 
Passes,  by  Paul  Thornton  Waddlesleigh  of 
Philadelphia.'" 

Mr.  Larry  moved  uneasily  in  his  chair,  but 
for  a  moment  he  remained  silent,  gazing  at  the 
ceiling.  Then  he  cleared  his  throat. 

"Ever  read  Huckleberry  Finn?"  he  asked. 

"No,"  said  Katrina. 

"  Do  so,"  he  replied. 

She  seemed  amused. 

[278] 


THE    RENAISSANCE 


"How  did  you  happen  to  think  of  Huckle- 
berry Finn?" 

"Why,"  he  explained,  "I  was  thinking  of 
your  Mr.  Morelli's  definition.  Now  in  Huck 
Finn,  as  I  remember  it,  the  author  *  seized  and 
represented  the  outward  appearances  of  per- 
sons and  things  as  determined  by  inward  - 
and  moral  —  conditions.'  It  is  evident,  there- 
fore, that  the  spirit  of  the  Renaissance  is  not 
yet  dead." 

"Indeed  it  is  not,"  Katrina  assured  him. 
"Mrs.  Gatehouse  as  much  as  said  so." 

"When  does  Mrs.  Gatehouse  leave  town?" 
Mr.  Larry  inquired. 

"She  left  to-day." 

"  Good !  I've  got  some  corking  ideas  for  an 
editorial  on  Mark  Twain's  relation  to  the 
Renaissance  - —  some  notions  that  will  be  new 
to  Mark,  I  think." 

"But  why,"  asked  Katrina,  "do  you  want 
Mrs.  Gatehouse  out  of  town  ?" 

"Well,"  he  explained,  "my  ideas  might 
seem  a  little  novel  to  Mrs.  Gatehouse  also; 
as  to  Mr.  Morelli,  I  cannot  say." 

"Would  you  like  my  program  for  refer- 
ence?" 

[279] 


KA TRIN  A 


"It  will  hardly  be  necessary;  thank  you, 
just  the  same." 

Katrina  regarded  Mr.  Larry  thoughtfully. 

"You  always  make  things  modern,  don't 
you?"  she  remarked. 

"Modern?" 

"  Yes,  I  mean  —  well,  I  can't  explain  ex- 
actly what  I  mean,  but  you  always  apply 
things  so,  no  matter  how  ancient  they  are;  and 
you  seem  so  cheerful  about  it.  Why,  this 
afternoon,  I  enjoyed  it,  and  all,  but  it  dis- 
couraged me  too,  hearing  Mrs.  Gatehouse  and 
thinking  how  much  she  knew  —  and  how 
much  there  is  to  know  in  this  world.  Oh, 
dear,  and  I  can't  —  I  simply  can't  remember 
dates,  or  names  — " 

Katrina  paused  and  added  pathetically 

"  —  or  anything!" 

"It  is  not  even  desirable,"  the  knight  re- 
minded her,  speaking  slowly,  but  with  passion 
under  his  lowered  voice.  "Now  that  you  are 
on  the  threshold  of  so  many  remarkable  facts, 
my  child  —  the  Renaissance,  and  Pippa  Passes 
and  Mr.  Waddlesleigh  of  Philadelphia,  and 
all  —  let  me  give  you  a  piece  of  sound  advice: 
Know  as  much  as  you  please,  and  be  inter- 
[280] 


THE    RENAISSANCE 


ested  in  everything,  but  if  you  love  me,  balance 
every  ounce  of  gray  matter  with  an  ounce  of 
good  red  blood  —  every  thought  of  your  brain 
with  a  beat  of  your  heart.  If  you've  got  Mrs. 
Gatehouse  in  the  scales  to-day,  and  feel  a  bit 
awed,  my  dear,  seize  also  upon  her  'outward 
appearance  as  determined  by  inward  and 
moral  conditions/  and  say  to  yourself:  she's 
a  very  nice  lady  of  flesh  and  blood,  black  silk 
and  the  most  enchanting  lace,  who  had  the 
good  fortune  to  go  to  Florence,  and  read 
Morelli,  and  now  she's  come  back  to  tell  us 
about  it,  like  the  other  missionaries.  Be 
thankful,  of  course,  for  being  told  of  the 
Renaissance,  but  be  a  sight  thankfuller,  my 
dear,  that  there  was  such  a  thing !  —  and  let 
your  heart  beat  with  its  spirit !  —  let  it  leap 
warmly  at  that  '  outward  appearance ! '  —  and 
of  what?  Mrs.  Gatehouse?  Dates?  Facts? 
Good  lord,  no!  At  the  'outward  appearance* 
of  the  self-same  world,  my  child,  that  caught 
Raphael  and  Michael  Angelo  under  the  ribs! 
Do,  in  your  art  of  living,  every  day,  what  they 
did  in  paint!  Unless  you've  done  that,  or  tried 
to  do  it,  or  at  any  rate  seen  that  you  ought  to 
do  it,  the  Renaissance  hasn't  taught  you  any- 
[281] 


KA TRINA 


thing  worth  the  candle,  my  dear.  Unless  Mrs. 
Gatehouse  has  done  the  same,  she  has  missed 
the  very  liver  and  lights  of  the  Renaissance !  — 
and  the  only  part  of  it  that  the  old  Renais- 
sancers  knew  anything  about  —  and  the  only 
part  worth  remembering.  And  when  Mr. 
Waddlesleigh  of  Philadelphia  rises  in  a  frock 
coat  and  reads  to  you  Pippa  Passes,  take  joy 
of  his  tailor  and  of  his  mellifluous  accents,  by 
all  means,  my  dear  —  and  listen  with  all  your 
five  senses  (for  you'll  need  'em)  to  Mr.  Brown- 
ing's lovely,  lovely,  immortal  verse  —  but 
meanwhile  remember  what  is  far  more  impor- 
tant than  Mr.  Browning  —  or  Mr.  Waddles- 
leigh of  Philadelphia :  that  Pippa  passes !  - 
that  Katrina  passes!  —  and  go  on  singing,  my 
little  Pippa,  while  'the  year's  at  the  spring 
and  day's  at  the  morn.' ' 

Mr.  Larry  paused.  His  face,  which  had 
been  very  grave  throughout,  though  very 
tender  in  his  peroration,  grew  graver  still. 

"The  Bible  Class  will  meet  on  Thursday 
afternoon  at  four  o'clock  —  Thursday  after- 
noon at  four  o'clock.  Wednesday  evening 
prayer  meeting  at  the  usual  hour.  The 
Young  Ladies'  Guild  — " 
[282] 


VIII 

SUNDAY 

Six  days  of  the  week  Mr.  Larry  labored, 
rising  at  seven  and  going  forth  hastily  to  the 
eight  o'clock  car,  but  on  the  seventh  day  he 
rose  at  nine,  and  for  half  an  hour  there  was  a 
sound  of  surf  and  song  in  the  bath-room, 
from  which  he  emerged  at  last  with  a  shining 
face,  to  breakfast  leisurely  till  ten.  At  the 
same  hour  Katrina,  soberly  arrayed,  bade  him 
good-by,  and  departed  pensively  with  her 
Bible  in  her  hand.  She  glanced  sometimes  a 
little  wistfully  at  that  easy  figure  there,  begin- 
ning on  one  chair  in  a  velvet  smoking- jacket  and 
ending  on  another,  in  those  crimson  embroi- 
dered slippers  of  modest  fame.  A  cloud  of 
tobacco  smoke  rose  lazily  from  behind  the 
great  Sunday  newspapers  in  which  he  was  im- 
mersed, and  in  whose  discarded  sheets  she 
knew  that  she  would  find  him  half-buried  and 
aimably  drowsy,  on  her  return.  It  was  the 
one  hour  of  the  week  when  their  sympathies 
diverged.  All  other  partings  of  the  way  were 
[283] 


KA T  RIN  A 


without  significance  to  her  mind,  but  this  one 
left  her  with  a  certain  sadness  and  sense  of 
faithlessness.  She  was  not  quite  certain  of 
her  duty  here:  whether  as  a  daughter  of  the 
church,  she  ought  to  leave  him  without  an 
appealing  or  a  warning  word,  to  such  utter 
worldliness,  on  a  Lord's  Day  morning.  Yet 
she  doubted,  too,  that  she  could  find  it  in  her 
heart  to  plead  with  becoming  zeal  against  a 
leisure  in  which  he  took  such  comfort,  and 
which  seemed  so  harmless  after  all. 

Once,  and  of  his  own  volition,  he  had  gone 
to  church  with  her,  but  had  returned,  as  she 
regretfully  remembered,  in  a  strangely  un- 
Christian  frame  of  mind;  and  it  had  then 
occurred  to  her,  though  not  without  qualms 
for  so  unorthodox  a  conclusion,  that  it  might 
be  wiser  for  a  certain  intellectually  susceptible 
type  of  soul  to  remain  at  home.  The  diffi- 
culty on  that  memorable  occasion  had  been  the 
sermon,  which  she  admitted  to  herself  had 
been  unfortunate  that  day,  for  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Monday  had  taken  such  obvious  pains  with 
his  little  text,  had  gone,  in  fact,  to  such  extraor- 
dinary and  unconscionable  length  to  eluci- 
date what  seemed  quite  clear  even  to  her 
[284] 


YOUNG   GIRLS    LIKING   TO   SIT   WITH    HER 


SUNDA Y 

youthful  mind,  that  she  found  herself  flushed 
and  anxious  and  a  little  ashamed  as  he  pro- 
ceeded, feeling,  as  she  confessed  afterward, 
that  Mr.  Larry's  mind  was  squirming  dread- 
fully, though  he  sat  quite  stiffly  at  her  side. 

"Why,  I  didn't  even  wiggle,"  he  protested. 
"  How  could  you  have  guessed  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  knew  —  intuitively,"  she  said. 

He  never  offered  to  go  again,  and  she  shrank 
from  asking  it,  and  left  him  to  his  Sunday 
papers  and  his  cigarettes.  She  returned  in- 
variably with  friends. 

It  was  a  common  thing  for  him  as  he  still 
sat  reading  to  hear  their  voices  on  the  outer 
steps,  and  it  pleased  him  if  they  came  within, 
to  see  how  favored  his  Katrina  was  —  young 
girls  liking  to  stop  and  sit  with  her  on  the 
great  sofa,  chatting  and  laughing  in  their 
silvery  fashion  as  they  held  her  hand,  while 
young  men  vied  with  each  other  in  the  awk- 
ward chivalry  of  youth.  All  liked  Mr.  Larry, 
who  felt  a  little  strange  sometimes  amid  their 
chatter,  remembering  how  different  his  own 
young  days  had  been,  how  full  of  work  and 
want  and  struggle  beyond  his  years;  and  seeing 
these  spruce  young  swains  with  their  short 
[285] 


KA TRINA 


cropped  hair  and  seasonable  attire,  he  would 
wonder  to  himself  what  the  bright-eyed  girl 
who  smiled  upon  them  from  her  sofa  throne 
would  think  of  such  a  tousel-headed,  ill-clad 
farm-lad  as  he  had  been.  Would  girls  now- 
adays look  twice  at  the  lads  their  fathers  were, 
he  wondered,  musing  of  that  mysterious  god- 
dess who  decrees  what  a  maiden's  taste  shall 
be  in  gowns  and  men.  Next  morning  in 
"Cap  and  Bells:" 

"I  see  the  short-haired  man  is  coming  in," 
my  Delia  murmured,  glancing  at  the  latest 
fashion  plates. 

"Indeed!"  said  I,  thinking  of  my  shaggy 
youth.  "It's  very  ugly  and  bull-doggy,  don't 
you  think?" 

"Dear,  no,"  she  answered,  "it's  awfully 
chic,  and  I  think  I  shall  have  one  in  the 
spring." 

It  was  often  easier  to  listen  in  this  musing 
manner  than  to  join  in  the  converse  of  Ka- 
trina's  friends,  with  its  knowing  allusions  to 
persons  Mr.  Larry  had  never  met,  or  to 
school-day  events,  or  the  scores  of  the  latest 
foot-ball  games,  or  prophecies  of  those  to 
come. 

[286] 


SUNDA Y 

"I'm  getting  on  in  years,"  he  told  Katrina 
with  a  rueful  countenance,  and  as  they  went 
in  together  to  Sunday  dinner  he  groaned  rheu- 
matically  and  with  mock  cautiousness  lowered 
himself  into  his  chair.  "  I  don't  seem  to  care 
a  cuss  which  wins,"  he  whined,  "Yale  or 
Harvard." 

"Why  should  you?  You  never  went  to 
Yale  or  Harvard." 

He  shook  his  head,  and  as  he  carved  the 
chicken  he  recited  to  her  in  a  mournful  voice: 

That  time  of  year  thou  may  'st  in  me  behold 
When  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few,  do  hang 
Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against  the  cold, 
Bare  ruin'd  choirs,  where  late  the  sweet  birds  sang. 
In  me  thou  see  'st  the  twilight  of  such  day 
As  after  sunset  — 

Katrina  stamped  her  foot. 

"Stop!"  she  cried.  "I  won't  have  you 
talking  so." 

"That's  Shakespeare." 

"I  don't  care  who  it  is,"  she  retorted.  "It 
gives  me  the  shivers." 

"  But  I  do  feel  old  with  your  young  blades, 
Katrina." 

[287] 


KA TRINA 


"Mine!"  she  replied. 

"With  all  young  gallants,"  he  amended. 

"Not  with  Mr.  White,  do  you?"  she  in- 
quired. 

"  Mr.  White  ?  You  don't  mean  Billy  White, 
do  you?" 

"I  do,"  she  answered.  "He  walked  home 
with  me  from  church  to-day." 

Mr.  Larry  paused  with  his  carving-knife 
in  the  air. 

"B-billy  White!     In  church!" 

"Why,  yes,"  she  replied  composedly.  "He 
often  comes.  He's  a  great  admirer  of  Dr. 
Monday." 

"What!     That  irreverent  little  cuss!" 

"Oh,  he  isn't  an  irreverent  little — at  all," 
Katrina  answered.  "Why,  he  sometimes 
comes  to  Young  Peoples'  Meeting." 

Mr.  Larry  still  stood  with  the  uplifted 
carver  in  his  hand. 

"Really,"  Katrina  went  on  earnestly,  "he 
seems  to  be  a  very  earnest  young  man.  And 
he  is  very  fond  of  poetry." 

Mr.  Larry  rested  his  knife  upon  the  chicken's 
breast. 

"  Billy  White,"  he  said  faintly, "  is  fond  of - 
[288] 


SUNDA Y 

"  Why,  yes,"  she  replied.  "  Didn't  you  know 
it  ?  He  loves  the  Brownings,  and  I  have  just 
loaned  him  that  dear  old  copy  of  the  Sonnets 
from  the  Portuguese.  You  seem  surprised." 

"Oh,  no,"  Mr.  Larry  assured  her.  "I'm 
not  surprised.  I'm  flabbergasted.  I'm  — " 

Unable  to  find  a  stronger  term,  he  waved 
the  carving  knife  instead. 

"Why,"  said  Katrina,  "I  thought  that  you 
knew  Mr.  White?" 

"Well,  I  did — formerly,  my  love." 

"That  chicken  will  be  stone  cold,"  she  re- 
minded him. 

"By  George!"  he  said,  more  to  himself 
than  to  Katrina  or  the  chicken,  which  he 
began  to  carve.  ;'You  don't  tell  me.  Billy 
White  is  fond  of  poetry!  Well,  well.  What's 
the  world  coming  to,  anyhow?  Fond  of 
Browning,  you  say  ?  Now  I'll  be  — ' 

"He  is  a  very  good  talker,"  Katrina  de- 
clared. "The  way  I  happened  to  learn  of 
his  fondness  for  poetry  was  thus:  We  were 
walking  home  from  church  together  —  oh, 
this  was  months  ago  —  and  he  asked  me  in 
what  direction  my  tastes  went;  and  when  I 
said  poetry,  you  should  have  seen  his  face!" 
[289] 


KA TRIN  A 


"  Well,"  Mr.  Larry  replied.  "  Just  what  am 
I  to  infer?'* 

"Why,  it  lighted  up  so." 

"Oh,  it  did,  did  it?" 

"And  then  he  told  me,"  Katrina  resumed, 
"how  poetry  had  always  affected  him.     Oh, 
he  was  very  modest  about  it,  but  I  could  see 
that  he  really  had   a  very  unusual  mind- 
that  is,  of  course,  as  young  men's  minds  go." 

"Oh,  of  course,"  Mr.  Larry  agreed,  adding 
beneath  his  breath,  "  the  darned  little  beggar." 

"What?"  asked  Katrina. 

"I  was  speaking  to  this  chicken,"  Mr.  Larry 
replied.  "It's  so  damned  tough.  What 
surprises  me,  Katrina,  in  this  matter  of  Billy 
White,  is  how  astonishing  it  is  that  I  should  be 
working  in  the  same  office  with  that  young  - 
fellow,  and  not  know  him  as  well  as  you  do." 

"I  suppose,"  she  answered,  "he  just  natu- 
rally hesitated  to  speak  about  poetry  to  a  man. 
And  7  believe,"  she  added  knowingly,  "that 
he  writes  poetry." 

"What  makes  you  think  so ?" 

"He  didn't  say  so,"  Katrina  replied;  "but 
I  inferred  it  from  a  remark  he  made." 

Mr.  Larry's  eyebrows  rose  inquiringly,  but 
[290] 


SUNDA Y 

Katrina  apparently  had  finished  what  she  had 
to  say  —  at  least  on  poetry. 

"He  wants  me  to  go  to  the  theater  with  him 
next  Thursday  night.  Do  you  object?" 

"Not  if  you  don't,"  Mr.  Larry  answered. 

"I  think,"  she  added,  a  little  timidly,  but 
with  considerable  dignity  in  her  voice,  "it 
might  do  him  good  to  have  me  go  with  him." 

"I'm  sure  of  that,"  Mr.  Larry  said. 

"I  mean,"  she  added,  her  face  flushing  — 
"  I  mean  that  I  believe  —  I  hope,  at  least  — 
that  I  have  a  good  influence  over  him.  He 
used  to  be  sporting-editor,  you  know,  and 
rather  wild,  I'm  afraid,  from  what  he  tells  me 
—  and  it  seems  that  something  I  said  when  I 
first  met  him,  that  day  in  the  office  —  you  re- 
member —  when  you  introduced  us  ?  —  some- 
thing I  said  really  affected  him  very  seri- 
ously." 

Mr.  Larry  had  pricked  up  his  ears. 

"Something  you  said,"  he  remarked. 

"Yes,  something  I  said  about  his  having 
better  assignments  some  day.  It  seems  that 
it  really  affected  him  very  seriously,  so  that  he's 
never  been  the  same  since.  He  lost  all  taste 
for  sport,  he  told  me,  and  from  that  very  day, 
[291] 


KA TRINA 


it  seems,  he  has  devoted  himself  to  —  well,  to 
higher  things." 

"In  fact,"  said  Katrina,  but  smiling  at  the 
memory  of  so  much  absurdity,  "the  boy  is  so 
grateful,  and  so  foolish  about  it,  he  declares 
up  and  down  that  it  was  7  who  reformed  him, 
by  what  I  said  that  day.  Fancy ! " 

But  Mr.  Larry  replied  with  the  utmost 
seriousness. 

"  I  think  it  quite  possible,  my  love  —  quite 
possible.  I  was  not  aware  of  it  myself,  but, 
as  I  told  you,  I  am  growing  old.  Oh,  I  am! 
I  am,  Katrina!  I  find  that  my  eyesight  is 
growing  dim." 


[292] 


IX 


THE   ONE   DREAM    LEFT 

THERE  had  been  the  usual  February  thaws, 
and  in  early  March  rain  had  fallen,  though 
not  in  such  showers  as  to  warrant  Mr.  Larry's 
mud-encrusted  shoes.  Every  other  evening 
he  came  home  late,  sadly  bedraggled,  not, 
however,  with  the  filthy  stains  from  city  cross- 
walks, but  with  the  fine  clean  clay  of  country 
roads. 

"Whatever  do  you  do,"  Katrina  asked, 
brushing  at  his  coat,  "to  get  yourself  so 
spattered?" 

"Oh,"  he  replied,  "I've  been  investigating 
a  little  suburban  matter.  By  George,  Katrina, 
that  makes  me  think!  I  picked  some  pussy- 
willows  for  you  -  -  and  left  them  somewhere. 
Now  where  did  I  leave  those  pussy-willows?" 

He  stood  with  a  slipper  in  each  hand. 

"  I  must  have  dropped  them,  or  I  must  have 

laid   them   down  when  I  —  7  know  —  when 

I  was  a-poking  around  that  wood-chuck's  hole ! 

Yes  sir,  I  saw  a  wood -chuck,  Katrina!     By 

[293] 


KA TRINA 


George,  I  did!  The  old  devil  was  sitting  on 
a  stone  wall,  big  as  life  and  twice  as  natural, 
but  Lord  Harry !  by  the  time  I  got  there  - 

Mr.  Larry  tugged  wrathfully  at  his  water- 
logged shoes. 

"  What  chance  has  an  old  —  curmudgeon 
like  me  —  in  a  swamp  —  with  a  wood-chuck  ?  " 

"But  weren't  you  afraid  he'd  bite?"  Ka- 
trina  asked,  wondering  what  manner  of  beast 
a  wood-chuck  was.  Mr.  Larry  pouted  like  a 
boy. 

"Naw!" 

"Spring's  really  on  the  way,  isn't  it!"  she 
exclaimed. 

;<  You'd  think  so,"  he  replied,  "if  you  could 
hear  the  blue-birds,  and  the  robins,  and  the 
song-sparrows,  and  meadow-larks  —  /  tell 
you!"  He  waved  his  hands  to  indicate  the 
flight  of  wings.  "  The  air  is  full  of  them.  The 
moles  are  ploughing,  and  crops  look  fine." 

"Crops!  Isn't  it  rather  early  for  crops?" 

"Not  for  skunk  cabbage,"  he  replied.  "It 
flourisheth  by  the  water-brooks.  It  springeth 
up  and  is  glad.  Yea,  it  skippeth  like  the  little 
hills.  And  the  cherry's  in  bud,  and  the  sap's 
meandering  —  all  the  hedges  are  auburn- 
[294] 


THE    ONE    DREAM    LEFT 

haired.  And  the  turf's  mellow,"  he  added 
ruefully,  gazing  at  his  discarded  shoes.  "By 
George,  if  I'd  a-had  Parker's  dog  —  hey? 
What  are  you  laughing  at?" 

"  Why,  at  you,"  Katrina  explained.  "  You're 
like  a  small  boy." 

"Sure!"  he  replied.  "I  feel  like  one  —  or 
did  to-day,  deviling  that  wood-chuck.  I  tried 
everything;  poked  with  young  trees  and  barked 
like  a  dog.  I  did,  really.  Didn't  you  ever 
hear  a  dog  after  a  wood -chuck,  Katrina?" 
He  sank  back  wearily  in  his  chair. 

"Wasn't  the  wind  cold?"  she  asked. 

"Keen,"  he  replied;  "but  you  could  feel 
spring  just  behind." 

That  suburban  matter  —  some  Herald  as- 
signment, Katrina  fancied  —  was  not  to  be 
settled  in  a  day,  or  many  days,  and  Mr.  Larry's 
evening  muddiness  continued  with  a  frequency 
that  became  a  matter  of  regret  on  Katrina's 
part,  for  while  she  was  concerned  to  the  extent 
of  a  broom-brush  in  this  mystery,  she  must  be 
content,  it  seemed,  with  evasive  answers  and 
voluble  accounts  of  the  growth  of  spring.  Be- 
fore All  Fool's  Day  Mr.  Larry  had  waxed 
eloquent  over  snakes  and  caterpillars,  over  but- 
[295] 


KA TRIN  A 


terflies  and  red  squirrels  frisking  among  the 
rocks,  and  with  the  advent  of  April's  flowery 
course  he  brought  her  hepaticas,  rue  anemones, 
and  handfuls  of  meadow  violets  to  atone  some- 
what for  these  pleasures  which  he  never  invited 
her  to  share.  Twice,  on  little  excursions  of  her 
own  with  more  thoughtful  friends,  they  saw 
him  pass,  oblivious  alike  to  calls  and  handker- 
chiefs, on  his  country  quest. 

Had  they  been  in  Fairhampton  on  the  last 
afternoon  in  April  they  might  have  seen  Mr. 
Larry  descend  suddenly  from  a  suburban 
car.  Now  Fairhampton,  twenty  miles  from 
the  City  Hall,  was  then  —  is  still,  please  God ! 
-  an  unimproved  and  altogether  lovely  pas- 
toral spot  without  Additions  of  any  kind  what- 
ever. Subdivision  was  a  crime  unknown. 
Real  estate  poets  had  not  yet  appeared.  There 
were  no  Hollywoods  —  without  holly  trees ;  no 
Windermeres,  without  the  water  to  float  a  lily 
pad;  no  Bonnybraes  without  a  brae  to  climb. 
It  was  a  Saturday  when  Mr.  Larry  came  to 
town,  and  found  it  bustling  with  country  carts. 
There  was  only  one  garrulous  little  street  of 
shops,  quieting  down  as  it  passed  the  parson's 
and  running  on  under  whispering  leaves  and 
[296] 


THE    ONE    DREAM    LEFT 

between  old  houses  till  it  met  the  brook,  where 
it  leaped  the  waters  at  a  single  bound  of  ancient 
wagon-bridge  and  sunned  itself  among  the 
farms. 

At  the  bridge  Mr.  Larry  lingered  out  of 
pure  delight,  reading  on  its  weather-beaten 
railing  the  initials  and  dates  of  lovers'  trysts, 
and  leaning  there,  listening  to  the  music  of 
waters  below  him  and  of  unseen  birds  above 
his  head,  the  spirit  moved  him  and  he  fell  to 
writing  on  a  little  pad.  First,  on  the  corner 
of  the  leaf:  "Katrina,  Sugg,  for  Chap.  IV," 
and  then,  with  many  crossings  out  and  criss- 
crossings  of  words  and  phrases  till  he  got 
them  right:  — 

On  mild  spring  evenings,  if  one  is  young 
enough  and  fond  of  the  scent  of  lilacs,  he  may 
walk  thus  bridgeward  to  watch  the  stars 
sparkling  above  and  tremulous  below  him; 
and  leaning  then  upon  the  railing  —  if  only 
he  hath  taken  thought  to  provide  himself 
against  the  loneliness  of  a  spot  so  tranquil  in 
the  night-time  —  he  may  vary  astronomy  with 
other  mysteries,  so  that  the  place  is  called 
Lovers'  Loll  to  this  very  day.  There  is 
nothing  to  fear  there,  not  even  a  belated 
farmer  s  wagon,  which  is  bound  by  courtesy 
[297] 


KA TRINA 


to  send  forth  an  early,  respectful,  warning 
rattle  ere  it  trundles  nigh,  even  as  natives 
walking  that  way  and  seeing  two  figures  dimly 
athwart  the  sky,  are  wont  in  a  kindly  spirit  of 
humanity  to  develop  symptoms  of  a  bronchial 
affection  natural  enough  in  such  dampish 
spots.  Love,  then,  may  be  said  to  flourish  in 
Farmingtown,  owing  partly  to  these  natural 
advantages  of  the  place  and  partly  to  the 
Farmingtown  girls  themselves,  who  are  so 
kindly  disposed  to  sociability,  and  so  fond  of 
scenery  and  stars. 

Mr.  Larry  now  sauntered  back,  choosing 
the  by-streets  and  examining  the  yards  and 
houses  as  he  passed.  He  stopped  frequently, 
pleased  by  some  vista  of  sunlit  meadow  through 
a  haze  of  leaves.  Pink  clouds  hovered  here 
and  there  —  flowers  of  the  peach.  The  cherry 
blossoms  were  full  of  bees,  and  the  mild  wind 
came  to  him  so  sweetly  laden  that  he  stopped 
in  an  ecstasy  to  inhale  that  delectable  promise 
of  pies-to-be.  But  coming  by  chance  into  the 
long  main  street  again  he  strode  at  once  to 
the  center  of  the  town,  and  crossing  between 
the  farmers'  wagons,  passed  instantly  beneath 
a  faded  sign. 

He  reappeared  accompanied  by  an  elderly 
[298] 


THE    ONE    DREAM    LEFT 

little  bearded  gentleman  in  gold-bowed  spec- 
tacles and  a  broad-brimmed  hat,  a  grave  per- 
sonage though  somewhat  seedy  of  attire,  whose 
part  in  the  conversation  appeared  just  now  to 
be  sundry  very  knowing  nods  as  he  led  the  way 
from  the  business  portion  of  the  town.  They 
had  not  gone  far,  however,  Mr.  Larry  talking 
and  gesticulating  with  marked  earnestness, 
before  the  citizen  had  found  his  voice. 

"  I  see,"  he  said,  "  you  don't  care  especially 
about  the  farm  part." 

"It  is  not  essential  to  our  happiness,"  Mr. 
Larry  replied,  "though  we'd  like  a  few  acres 
hanging  around  and  looking  pleasant,  you 
understand." 

"Well,  there's  the  Stevens' farm,"  said  the 
little  man.  "  Sightly  place,  too.  Right  oppo- 
site the  cemetery." 

Mr.  Larry  glanced  curiously  at  his  com- 
panion. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  I  don't  think,  Mr.  Dowling, 
I  could  ever  feel  at  home  in  a  place  like  that." 

"It's  the  Protestant  cemetery,"  suggested 
the  little  man. 

Mr.  Larry  hesitated  —  a  decent  interval, 
out  of  respect. 

[299] 


KA TRIN  A 

"N-no,"  he  said,  "though  I  admit  there's 
force  in  what  you  say.'* 

"How  about  the  Wilson  place?"  Mr.  Dow- 
ling  suggested.  "  Eighty  acres  of  the  best  — 

"No,"   Mr.   Larry  interposed,   "we   want 
something    modest,    you    know  —  something 
flowery  —  something    with    bushes    to    it  - 
scraggledy    orchard  —  little   old    house,   you 
understand  —  older  the  better." 

Mr.  Dowling  cogitated  to  the  extent  of 
a  block. 

"Don't  want  a  big  place,  you  say?"  he 
finally  managed  to  remark. 

Mr.  Larry  looked  grave. 

"That,"  he  said,  "was  the  meaning  I  in- 
tended to  convey." 

"I'll  tell  you,"  said  the  little  man  more 
cheerfully,  "old  Lady  Jordan  might  sell,  if 
you'd  rent  her  half  the  house.  It's  a  big  place. 
Plenty  of  room  for  two  families.  There's 
only  her  and  Sara,  her  invalid  daughter." 

"  What  appears  to  be  the  matter  with  Sara  ?  " 
Mr.  Larry  inquired. 

"Don't  just  know.     Some  kind  of  spells, 
but  nothing  dangerous,  I  guess  —  plain,  ordi- 
nary fits  of  some  kind." 
[300] 


THE    ONE    DREAM    LEFT 

Mr.  Larry  stared. 

"Just  fits,  you  say?" 

"Well,  yes." 

Mr.  Larry  made  no  reply. 

"  Don't  just  take  to  the  idea  ?  "  Mr.  Dowling 
suggested. 

"  Well,  no,"  said  Mr.  Larry. 

"Say,  how'd  the  Rogers  place  do?  By 
thunder,  I  never  thought  of  that.  Elegant 
big  place!  Eighteen  rooms.  Barn  ties  up 
twenty  head  if  you  like." 

Mr.  Larry  paused  in  the  middle  of  the  walk 
and  fixed  the  little  gentleman  with  his  eye. 

"Say,  Dowling,  you've  heard  'Home  Sweet 
Home, '  haven't  you  ?  And  '  The  Old  Oaken 
Bucket  ? '  And  *  Sweet  Alice,  Ben  Bolt  ? '" 

Mr.  Dowling  considered. 

"Well,  yes." 

"Exactly,"  said  Mr.  Larry.  "Now,  Dow- 
ling, that's  what  I  want.  I  want  the  littlest, 
oldest-fashionest  place  you've  got  in  Fair- 
hampton.  I  want  to  buy  it,  and  fix  it  over, 
and  live  there  all  the  rest  of  my  life  —  and 
then  be  buried  right  alongside  you  in  that 
Protestant  cemetery." 

Mr.  Dowling  stared. 

[301] 


KA TRINA 


"There  must  be  a  place  like  that  in  Fair- 
hampton,"  Mr.  Larry  went  on.  "Why,  I've 
seen  a  dozen,  myself." 

"Dang  it,  there  is,"  Mr.  Dowling  agreed 
with  sudden  heartiness.  "Now  that  I  come 
to  think  of  it,  I  know  just  the  place  you  mean." 

He  set  off  promptly  at  a  nimbler  pace,  and 
with  boundless  assurances.  The  house,  he 
said,  was  around  the  corner  a  little  piece,  and 
adjacent  to  stores,  churches,  the  trolley,  the 
cemetery  (Protestant)  and  the  public  schools. 
Could  be  purchased  cheap.  Bargain,  in  fact. 
Owner  obliged  to  sell  on  account  of  old  age. 
Shade  ?  Oh,  yes.  Oceans  of  shade.  More 
shade  than  anybody'd  want,  in  fact.  Bushes  ? 
M  —  yes,  bushes  too ;  nice  bushes.  Yes,  good 
well;  excellent  water.  Grass?  Land,  yes; 
plenty  of  grass;  more  grass  than  you  could 
shake  a  stick  at.  Pleasant  neighbors.  Lovely 
view.  Livery  stable  handy  —  right  across  the 
street,  in  fact.  Wouldn't  need  to  keep  your 
own  horse.  Wouldn't  pay  to  keep  your  own 
horse  with  a  livery  stable  right  in  front  of 
you. 

"Now,  there!"  Mr.  Dowling  said,  pausing 
in  his  walk  and  smiling  for  the  first  time  as  he 
[302] 


pointed  with  a  rheumatic  forefinger.  "An- 
swers your  description  to  a  T." 

"Does,  doesn't  it?"  he  repeated.  Pres- 
ently he  spoke  again: 

"I  say  it  does,  doesn't  it?" 

"I  wouldn't  call  that  an  old  house,"  Mr. 
Larry  replied  quietly. 

"Old!"  cried  Mr.  Bowling.  "I  should  say 
not !  Old  ?  Why,  man,  that  house  isn't  six- 
teen years  old,  to  my  knowledge.  Yes,  sir. 
Guess,  I  know.  Built  it  myself." 

He  paused  triumphantly. 

"Why,  it's  as  good  as  new.  I'll  bet  you 
there  ain't  a  leak  in  that  roof.  Plumbing's 
first  class,  to-day." 

"My  dear  friend,"  Mr.  Larry  replied,  "if  I 
could  only  impress  you  with  the  fact  that  what 
I  want  is  a  — v 

"  Why,  man,"  Mr.  Bowling  broke  in,  "  that's 
a  genuine  Queen  Anne  cottage!  Yes,  sir." 

"I  know  it,"  Mr.  Larry  groaned.  "My 
dear  sir,  I  know  it.  I  repeat:  /  know  it." 

"  Well,  so  do  I,"  Mr.  Bowling  declared  with 
some  little  heat.  "And  I  ought  to  know  it,  I 
guess.  I  said  I  built  it,  didn't  I  ?" 

"Yes,  but  my  dear  fellow,"  Mr.  Larry  re- 
[303] 


KA TRINA 


plied,  "  I  hate  —  I  despise  —  I  loathe  —  all 
Queen  Anne  cottages,  without  exception. 
What  I  wanted  —  what  I'm  trying  to  get 
through  your  head  is  - 

"Why,  what's  the  matter  with  that  house?" 
Mr.  Dowling  inquired. 

Mr.  Larry  paused  grimly. 

"  My  dear  Dowling,"  he  said,  "  there  are  one 
million  seven  hundred  and  ninety-six  thou- 
sand four  hundred  and  fifty-three  Queen 
Anne  cottages  in  the  United  States!  I'm  the 
only  man  —  the  only  man,  Dowling,  who 
doesn't  like  them.  And  I  know  that  house. 
I've  been  in  it  fourteen  thousand  and 
ninety-eight  times  already.  I  know  it  like  a 
book.  I  know  where  they  put  the  piano.  I 
know  where  the  parson  stands  when  he  reads 
the  burial  service.  The  coffin,  Dowling,  can 
only  set  one  way  in  a  house  like  that!  And  I 
can  see  the  mourners  stepping  back  into  the 
dining  room  to  let  the  pall-bearers  out  the  front 
door.  Don't  you  see  ?  Don't  you  see  why  I 
hate,  and  loathe,  and  despise  that  house? 
Look  there:  There's  another  house  like  it;  and 
another  over  there,  all  built  in  the  tail  end  of 
this  misguided  century.  I  don't  blame  Queen 
[304] 


THE    ONE    DREAM    LEFT 

Anne,  you  understand,  Bowling,  but  our 
grandfathers  never  built  a  house  like  that. 
Why,  look  over  there!  See  that  nice  little 
long-roofed,  weather-beaten  thing  behind  the 
lilacs?  Hasn't  been  painted  in  fifty  years, 
praise  God!  Now  who  lives  there?" 

"Oh,  the  Buxtons  live  there,"  Mr.  Dowling 
replied.  "Two  old-maid  sisters  that  take  in 
dressmaking." 

"Blest  Buxtons!"  Mr.  Larry  murmured. 
"Would  they  sell,  do  you  think?" 

"Sell!  The  Buxtons!"  Mr.  Dowling  re- 
peated. "Why,  that  was  their  father's  place, 
and  their  grandfather's  before  him." 

"  Well,  who  owns  that  house  with  the  red  bush 
in  front  of  it,  and  the  plants  in  the  windows  ?" 

"Frank  Perley  lives  there,"  was  the  reply. 
"He's  our  carpenter." 

"Happy  carpenter!"  Mr.  Larry  replied. 
"See  the  milk  pans  drying  in  the  sun!  And 
I'm  dog-goned  if  those  aren't  pies  in  that 
buttery  window ! " 

"Looks  some  like  pies,"  Mr.  Dowling  ad- 
mitted. 

"  Dowling,"  Mr.  Larry  cried,  "  our  folks  had 
a  place  like  that!" 

[305] 


KA TRINA 


He  continued  to  regard  it  for  some  moments 
with  a  kindling  eye. 

"There  ain't  any  architecture  about  that 
place,  as  far  as  I  see  can,"  the  agent  remarked. 

"Yes,  isn't  it  delightful,"  Mr.  Larry  said. 
"Would  Perley  sell,  do  you  think?" 

"Not  this  side  of  Kingdom  Come,"  Mr. 
Dowling  replied,  and  Mr.  Larry  nodded. 

"I  have  always  observed,"  he  said,  as  they 
turned  away,  "that  whenever  I  find  a  nice 
little  old  green-and-gold  place  like  that,  some 
poor  man  owns  it  —  and  you  couldn't  buy  it 
for  love  or  money.  Dowling,  you  can't  buy 
houses  that  have  pies  in  their  windows !  —  can 
you?" 

Mr.  Dowling  considered. 

"Well,  no,"  he  said. 

They  were  walking  under  elms  whose  boughs 
were  musical  with  the  songs  of  mating  birds, 
Mr.  Dowling  complacent,  Mr.  Larry  weary 
and  depressed.  He  was  thinking  of  Katrina, 
and  whether  or  not  he  should  tell  her  that 
night  of  his  fruitless  wanderings. 

" By  George,  Dowling!     Look  at  that!" 

"What?" 

"That!     That  house  there!" 
[306] 


THE    ONE    DREAM    LEFT 

"Where?" 

"There!  It's  for  sale!  By  George,  I've 
found  it!" 

Mr.  Larry's  steps  quickened.  He  had 
reached  the  gate  before  Mr.  Dowling  had  got 
within  ear-shot. 

"Why,"  said  the  agent,  puffing  up,  "you 
wouldn't  live  here!" 

"The  hell  I  wouldn't!" 

"Why,  I  knew  of  this.  Never  dreamed 
you'd  look  at  it.  The  house  isn't  fit  for  niggers 
to  live  in.  T'wont  bring  more'n  seven  dollars 
a  month." 

"So  much  the  better,"  Mr.  Larry  replied, 
dodging  a  lilac  branch  that  swung  across  the 
path. 

"  'T'aint  got  a  bath-room ! " 

"  Bath-room !  who  wants  a  bath-room  ?  Give 
me  a  bucket  out  under  the  lilacs  every  time." 

"  Cellar's  damp,"  Mr.  Dowling  observed. 

"Cellars,"  Mr.  Larry  retorted,  "most  gen- 
erally are.  But  look  at  that  roof!  Just  look 
at  it!  See  that  moss  there,  Dowling?  Con- 
found you,  that's  what  I  tried  to  get  into  your 
blooming  head.  Heavens,  man,  look  at  the 
bushes.  Look  at  the  bushes!  Look  at  that 
[307] 


KA TRIN  A 


red-headed  fellow  there?  What  d'ye  call  it? 
Japanese  quince?  And  that!  —  that  yellow 
fellow,  man.  Oh,  that's  Flowering  Currant, 
eh  ?  And  lilacs  till  you  can't  rest !  And  honey- 
suckles! And  gooseberries!  Pies,  man!  That 
means  pies!  And  look  at  the  well!  I'll  bet 
there's  moss  on  the  bucket." 

"There  ain't  any  bucket,"  Dowling  re- 
marked, "as  far's  I  can  see." 

"Well  then,  we'll  buy  one,  moss  and  all. 
Look  at  the  view  you  get  from  the  front  stoop, 
Dowling!  There  isn't  a  cemetery  or  a  livery 
stable  in  the  whole  horizon.  By  George,  did 
you  hear  me  say  *  stoop?'  Why,  I  haven't 
said  *  stoop'  since  I  was  a  boy!  You  can  see 
the  whole  valley.  Barn's  all  right,  too;  big 
enough  for  our  establishment.  We  must  get 
at  that  garden  right  away.  I'll  bet  there  isn't 
a  finer  white  oak  in  all  Fairhampton  than  that 
one  there.  George,  smell  those  lilacs!  Are 
those  willows  on  our  place?  There  must  be 
a  stream  there.  So!  Why,  Dowling,  this  is 
the  place  I've  been  singing  hymns  about  all 
afternoon!" 

"Place   may  be  all  right,"  the  agent  ad- 
mitted; "but  the  house  is  rotten." 
[308] 


THE    ONE    DREAM    LEFT 

"Why,  man,  it's  a  glorious  house  —  glori- 
ous !  Stand  off  -  -  here.  Just  see  the  lovely 
slope  of  the  roof  there !  —  with  the  oak  hanging 
over  it.  And  the  dormer  window.  And  the 
moss  on  the  shingles,  and  the  sun  on  the  moss. 
See  the  vines  on  the  window,  and  over  the 
stoop,  and  along  the  lattice.  And  look  at  the 
path  there,  meandering  off  under  the  grape 
arbor.  You  think  I'm  mad!  Why,  man,  I 
guess  you've  never  lived  eight  hours  a  day 
with  'Champagne  Soap  —  Five  Cents  a  Bar' 
a-staring  at  you  from  a  red-brick  wall  across 
the  alley  —  eh?  You've  never  sat  there  April 
mornings  knowing  that  just  such  earthly 
Edens  as  this  is,  do  exist  —  eh  ?  You've 
never  had  to  find  your  springs  in  four  darned 
little  English  sparrows  teetering  on  a  telegraph 
wire!" 

Mr.  Dowling  laughed.  It  was  his  first 
that  afternoon. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I'm  glad  you  like  the 
place,  mister." 

"Who  has  the  key?"  Mr.  Larry  inquired, 
peering  in  at  the  living  room  window. 

"Mrs.  Bell  has.  She  owns  the  place. 
She's  down  to  the  city  visiting  her  daughter, 
[309] 


and  she  won't  be  back  till  the  half-past  seven 
car." 

"  Well,  it  doesn't  much  matter,"  Mr.  Larry 
replied,  trying  one  cob-webbed  window  after 
another.  "I  can  see  pretty  well." 

"The  parlor  and  sitting-room  are  combined, 
Mr.  Dowling  remarked;  "but  you  could  put 
in  a  partition." 

"  What  do  I  want  with  a  partition  ?  "  Mr. 
Larry  grumbled.  "By  George,  this  little 
room  here  will  do  for  a  study!" 

"Floors  ain't  level,"  Mr.  Dowling  remarked 
drily;  "but  a  man  of  your  enthusiasm  ought 
to  kind  of  make  'em  do  —  for  a-while  any- 
way." 

'You  wait  and  see,  Dowling.  You  wait 
till  we've  scrubbed  this  place  up,  and  put  new 
paper  on  the  walls,  and  hung  up  our  curtains, 
and  our  blue  plates,  and  our  Ideal  Heads,  and 
our  Landseer  dogs,  and  our  Raphael  Madonna 
of  the  Old  Oaken  Bucket!  Wait  till  we've 
got  our  rugs  on  the  floor,  and  our  Waverlies 
on  the  shelf!  You'll  see,  Dowling.  And 
you'll  see  something  else!  You'll  see  what'll 
make  you  forget  the  lake  in  the  cellar,  and 
the  waves  in  the  floor!  You'll  see  the  prettiest 
[310] 


THE    ONE    DREAM    LEFT 

little  woman  you  ever  saw,  keeping  things 
tidy  and  having  the  Ruth  and  Naomi  Sewing 
Circle  in  to  tea!" 

Mr.  Dowling  laughed.  It  was  the  second 
time  that  afternoon. 

"  Guess  you're  right,"  said  he,  good-humor- 
edly. 

Mr.  Larry  nodded. 

"Guess  I  am.  She'll  come  out  to-morrow 
and  O.K.  the  deal.  It's  an  old  dream  of  ours, 
to  own  this  place."  He  glanced  at  the  sky. 
It  was  a  blaze  of  orange  behind  the  vines. 
"Sunset,"  he  said.  v"  Dowling,  I  can't  get 
home  to  dinner.  I'll  telephone  in — and  stay 
and  see  Mrs.  Bell." 

When  Mr.  Larry  arrived  from  Fairhampton 
it  was  a  clear  and  moonlit  night.  The  air  was 
moist  and  fragrant  with  the  springtime  as  he 
passed  eagerly  under  the  maples  of  Aber- 
crombie  Street,  and  through  the  gate,  which 
he  closed  sharply  to  announce  his  coming,  and 
up  the  steps,  which  he  cleared  at  a  single 
bound,  like  a  schoolboy  home  from  play. 
Smiling  to  himself,  he  opened  the  door.  He 
had  hoped  that  Katrina  would  be  behind  it, 
[311] 


KA TRIN  A 


but  the  hall  was  empty,  and  the  house  silent. 
Thrice  he  called  to  her,  and  stood,  strangely 
breathless,  listening  for  her  answer.  She  was 
not  in  the  study;  she  was  not  in  the  kitchen, 
nor  was  Mrs.  Jerrold  there;  the  dishes  had 
been  put  away. 

With  a  murmur  of  disappointment  he  went 
up-stairs.  Her  door  was  open,  and  he  stopped 
on  the  threshold  of  her  room,  marking  the 
perfect  order  there,  the  snow-white  counter- 
pane, the  unruffled  pillow,  her  dressing  table 
with  its  oval  mirror,  and  the  shining  silver 
reflected  in  its  shadowy  depths,  and  over  all 
the  moonshine  falling  like  a  bridal  veil. 

"No  wonder,  on  a  night  like  this,"  he  said, 
and  turned  away.  He  was  still  in  his  coat 
and  hat,  which  he  now  remembered  and  left 
below.  Still  by  moonlight,  he  found  his 
slippers,  opened  a  box  of  cigarettes,  and  sank 
back,  smoking,  in  his  chair. 

"Dear  child!"  he  sighed.  "She'll  be  sur- 
prised." 

The   afternoon  passed   pleasantly  through 

his  memory,  and  the  humor  of  it  caused  him 

to  lounge  there  comfortably  awhile,  but  the 

joy  of  its  success,  and  his  eagerness  to  tell  his 

[312] 


HAPPY  DEARS" 


THE    ONE    DREAM    LEFT 

story,  brought  him  to  his  feet  again  and  set 
him  pacing  up  and  down  the  floor. 

"She'll  be  surprised,  dear  child  .  .  . 
wouldn't  know  the  Garden  of  Eden, 
Dowling  wouldn't,  though  he  lived  next 
door  to  it  ...  she'll  be  surprised!  .  .  .  ." 

The  clock  struck  ten.  Going  to  the  win- 
dow he  threw  it  open.  The  moon  rode  higher 
in  the  heavens,  its  brightness  quenching  the 
nearer  stars.  Voices  came  to  him  on  the  soft 
night  air,  murmuring  voices,  a  man's  and 
woman's,  out  of  the  shadows  of  the  street. 
Now  they  came  nearer,  now  slowly  faded, 
and  died  away,  only  to  return,  and  fade,  and 
die  again  in  the  leafy  distance.  Mr.  Larry 
smiled,  half-scornfully. 

"Happy  dears!"  he  said,  and  turned  away. 

He  was  too  restless  to  watch  the  sky.  He 
smoked  incessantly,  pacing  up  and  down,  and 
planning  how  the  house  should  be  bought  and 
put  in  order,  and  where  he  would  do  his  writing 
mornings,  in  the  open  air,  and  how  with  his 
own  hands  he  would  restore  the  arbor  among 
the  lilacs,  for  Katrina  to  sew  in  and  serve 
her  callers  with  cakes  and  tea. 

The  gate  clicked. 

[313] 


KATRIN A 


"There!"  he  said,  hastening  to  the  door 
—  but  the  steps  passed  on,  and  around  the 
porch.  It  was  Mrs.  Jerrold. 

He  looked  at  his  watch.    It  was  half-past  ten. 

"Strange!"  he  muttered.  "Could  any- 
thing —  ?  Nonsense. ' ' 

Yet  his  heart  leaped  joyfully  and  with 
a  great  relief,  when  he  heard  her  voice  at 
the  gate.  He  had  planned  to  meet  her  at 
the  door,  —  on  the  porch,  perhaps,  —  but 
at  the  sound  of  her  step  upon  the  walk,  he 
wavered.  He  had  meant  to  greet  her  with  a 
grave,  even  a  reproachful  air,  at  first,  but 
she  found  him  grinning,  and  fumbling  with 
the  lamp. 

"  H'lo,"  he  said.     "  Is  that  you  ?  " 

"Hello,"  she  answered,  very  softly.  "Are 
you  lighting  the  lamp?" 

"Yes,  I'm— " 

He  paused  to  command  himself. 

" — lighting  the  lamp." 

She  slipped  quietly  into  a  chair. 

"I  guess,"  she  began,  a  little  breathlessly, 
"you  thought  I'd  run  away." 

"  Oh,  no,"  he  replied.    "  I  knew  you  were  - 
somewhere." 

[314] 


THE    ONE    DREAM    LEFT 

"It's  the  loveliest  night!"  she  sighed. 

"I  know  it,"  he  answered.  "I  got  in  from 
Fairhampton  about  half-past  nine.  Thought 
I'd  wait  up  for  you." 

"What  seems  to  be  the  matter  with  the 
lamp?"  she  asked. 

"Nothing,"  he  said. 

"  But  you  take  so  long  about  it." 

His  grin  widened. 

"Do  I?" 

"  And  you  seem  so  —  so  jolly." 

"Do  I?"  he  asked,  turning  down  the 
wick  —  and  turning  it  up  again.  Then  he 
burst  out  chuckling,  and  for  the  first  time 
looked  her  fairly  in  the  face. 

Katrina  was  scarlet. 

"Oh,  I  think  you're  horrid!"  she  said. 

Mr.  Larry  gasped. 

"Horrid!" 

"Yes,  I  do!  Nobody  has  any  business  to 
listen!"  she  declared. 

"Listen!" 

"Yes,  to  listen!  I  suppose  you've  heard 
everything  we  said!" 

She  was  crushing  her  handkerchief  fiercely 
between  her  palms. 

[315] 


KA TRINA 


"Listen,  Katrina?     Listen  to  what?" 

"Oh,  you  needn't  deny  it!  You've  been 
snickering  ever  since  I  came!  You  think  I'm 
angry.  I'm  not  half  so  angry  as  William  will 
be.  And  it  was  mean  of  you.  You  know  it 
was  mean.  You  know  it  was." 

The  child  was  crying! 

"  Good  God,  Katrina !     William !  —  you !  - 
why,  I  haven't  heard  anything!" 

She  raised  her  eyes  —  stared  at  him  — 
smiled  at  him  through  her  tears. 

" Oh!     Haven't  you  ?"  she  asked  eagerly. 

"No!" 

She  bent  like  a  flower  before  his  face. 

"Well,  then,  I've  —  I've  come  to  tell  you 
—  Mr.  Larry." 

THE   END 


[316] 


MAX   FARGUS 

BY 

OWEN  JOHNSON 

Author  of  "  The  Arrows  of  the  Almighty  " 
and  "  In  the  Name  of  Liberty." 

Illustrated  by  Fletcher  C.  Ransom. 
12mo.    $1.50 

This  is  the  story  of  a  strong  man's  revenge. 
Primarily  the  book  has  a  splendid  plot, 
full  of  interest  and  mystery  and  at  the 
same  time  it  reveals  hi  strong  pen  pic- 
tures a  great  phase  of  New  York  life. 
The  tenacity  and  ingenuity  of  Max 
Fargus'  revenge,  the  pitiful  plight  of 
Sheila,  who  is  an  adventuress  against 
her  will  and  nature,  and  the  knavery  of 
Bofmger,  are  splendidly  done.  Not  only 
is  the  story  most  interesting,  but  it  is 
told  with  exceptional  skill,  and  in  its 
broad,  impartial  viewpoint  suggests  the 
best  work  of  some  of  the  great  French 
novelists. 

THE  BAKER  &  TAYLOR  CO. 

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POWER  LOT 

BY 

SARAH  P.  MCLEAN  GREENE 

Author  of 

"  Cape  Cod  Folks,"  "  Vesty  of  the  Basins," 
"  Deacon  Lvsanaer." 

1 2  mo  Illustrated  $1.50 

IN  this  volume  Mrs.  Greene  returns  to  the 
quaint,  strong  characters  of  the  sea  coast, 
but  this  time  it  is  in  Nova  Scotia  that 
she  has  laid  her  story.  The  tale  is  of  a  disso- 
lute city  lad  set  down  penniless  in  the  sombre 
life  of  Power  Lot — "  Power  Lot  God  Help 
Us  "  it  is  called  in  that  section — a  little 
fishing  village  set  on  the  rough,  wild  coast, 
where  the  characters  have  the  breadth  of 
the  magnificent  view  which  surrounds  them, 
and  a  quaint  idea  of  life,  which  is  altogether 
fascinating.  The  story  of  the  development 
of  this  lad  in  the  hard  work  and  struggle  for 
his  very  living,  and  of  the  pathetic  and 
humorous  incidents  which  befell  him,  is  done 
in  Mrs.  Greene's  best  style,  and  is  perhaps 
the  strongest  and  most  entertaining  book 
she  has  written. 

THE   BAKER  &  TAYLOR  CO. 
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HAZEL  OF 
HEATHERLAND 


By   Mabel   Barnes-Grundy 


Truly  a  tale  of  most  exceptional  hu- 
mour and  charm  —  a  most  captivating 
and  refreshing  story. 

HOW  ENGLAND   RECEIVED  HAZEL  : 

PUNCH.  —  "The  Baron  has  great  pleasure  in 
recommending  Hazel  to  all  and  sundry.  There 
is  in  this  story  an  originality  of  idea  and  a  freshness 
of  treatment  that  will  rivet  the  attention  of  the  most 
jaded  novel-reader." 

PALL  MALL  GAZETTE.  —  ««  In  Hazel  of  Heatber- 
land,  Miss  Mabel  Barnes-Grundy  presents  the  story 
of  a  very  charming  country  girl.  In  the  quiet 
humours  of  home  life,  in  the  antithesis  of  severe 
and  buoyant  character  of  familiar  types,  and  in 
that  ingenuous  raillery  for  which  an  alert  and  good- 
tempered  disposition  can  find  so  much  opportunity, 
the  novel  is  entirely  agreeable.  A  very  pretty  love 
story,  tinctured  with  humour,  runs  through  the 
book,  and  any  reader  who  fails  to  enjoy  it  may  be 
dismissed  as  a  hopeless  frump." 

THE  BAKER  &  TAYLOR  CO.,  Publishers 

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FOLLY 


By  EDITH  RICKERT 

Author  of  "Th«  Reaper" 

Illustrated  in  Color  by  SIGISMOND  DE  IVANOWSKI 
01.BO 

""COOLLY"  is  a  two-edged  title — at  the  same 
time  both  the  nickname  of  the  charming, 
high-spirited  heroine  and  the  keynote  of  her  life's 
actions.  The  story  of  Folly's  temptation  and  its 
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ecies made  upon  publication  of  "  The  Reaper." 

To  competent  observers  of  tides  in  modern 
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dencies. It  is  a  strong  story,  yet  its  problem  is 
handled  with  great  delicacy,  so  that  it  is,  in  fact, 
spiritual  where  many  writers  would  have  made  it 
gross. 

THE  BAKER  &  TAYLOR  CO.,  Publishers 

33-37  East  I /th  St.,  Union  Sq.  North,  New  York 


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